The ridge was too much for the gears

The ridge was too much for the gears.

A sound like a handful of gravel

thrown into a blender, then the lurch,

and then the coasting toward the weeds.

Now the engine is ticking,

a metal heart cooling in the tall grass.

The silence is a physical thing,

heavier than the car itself.

On the shoulder, a stain is spreading.

The transmission fluid swirls

in the gray grit of the breakdown lane,

shimmering like a cheap opal

spilled out from the belly of the beast.

The tow truck is an hour away.

I sit on the bumper and watch the light

die behind the pines,

waiting for the heat to leave the hood.