On long winter afternoons
I liked to go into the machine
Shed and pour
Over those old service manuals
Soiled with oil
That came with the tractors
When they were purchased
Forty years before
Something geological about the way
Time and neglect had pressed them
Into sedimentary layers
They were never meant to be read
But referenced
Like books of herbalism
Bookmarked with pressed flowers
Taken down from the shelf
After the skittish doctor leaves
I liked the diagrams of the engines
Of the tractors that were
Standing like horses somewhere
Back there in the gloom
How the numbered parts floated
In the absolute space of the page
Tethered by dotted lines to where
They belonged
I thought of my organs floating
Outside my body like that
Like in that game Operation
We used to play until we lost
All the parts
Except the broken heart
I could only think of my own organs
Because in the dark they were
Breathing and beating blindly
Toiling to keep me alive
So I could kneel on the cement floor
And pour over service manuals
Flipping the wavy pages
Hard as cardstock
Like the pages of old cookbooks
Stained by the ingredients
Of meals made by their recipes
Until I came to the last section
Titled Troubleshooting
There were no diagrams
But I was fascinated by the word
Imagining troubles as traitors
Marched out after a rushed tribunal
Into a public square where
They were stood up against
The wall and shot
Their bodies left to rot
So the citizenry would know
What happens when
You betray your country
Even if your country is an engine
Powered by fossilized ferns and fire
Wow! So much to unpack. Love how you weaved in the political message as well.