Lug Nuts

Today I learned, with tears of rage,
how easy it is to remove a hubcap,
that lug nuts are not difficult to loosen
if one has the right tools. Lean into the handle
of that socket wrench, then let it drop
and clang against the garage floor
like a clarion call, Joshua’s horn
to destroy a wall long built up
by jokes and cartoons, movie images,
always a helpless woman in high heels,
her hands of no use, her mind less so.
She waited for aid from murderer or beau
hunky hero or menacing stranger.
She did not even know which was which
Or whom to fear. She was naught but a lug nut
who could be turned one way or the other
by any man with strength in his grip.
I shoulder the new tire into place,
wielded my wrench, curse those tropes,
the makers of memes, who shamed us
into thinking that we could not do this.

*

Downsized

(with a nod to Mary Oliver’s poem, “Storage”)

When we moved you
from your beloved home
to a new place (two rooms
in a beige hallway,
congregant dining
around the corner,
aides to bring your pills each night)
there were too many things
and not enough space.
Off you went, ungrudgingly,
leaving behind decades
of papers, books, holiday decor,
photographs, wine glasses,
corkscrews, hats, pairs of shoes
with heels too high for walking now.
What does one do?
We held a sale
and filled the yard with tables.
Friends, neighbors, bargain hunters
came to pick through
your coats and candlesticks.
They took nearly everything.
We donated the remains.
Now you ask: where is my clock?
My walking stick? That canvas bag?
I want my bird feeder.
Oh, things! If only
we could have you back.

*

Anara Guard is a poet living in Sacramento. Her poems have appeared in “On the Seawall,” “Gold Man Review,” “Tule Review,” “Last Stanza,” and elsewhere. She is the author of Hand on My Heart (New Wind Publishing) and Kansas, Reimagined (The Poetry Box). Her poems have won a John Crowe Ransom Award, Jack Kerouac Prize, and a Pushcart Prize nomination.