He was meant to be precocious. What else should a mechanical
body be good for other than acceleration. On his 555th day
of roaming, he discovers a library, picks up a romance,
and learns of our cliches. Somehow he acquires a butterfly,
which itself is a miracle, which he traps
in his belly, the flutter mistaken for heartbeat.
Of course the butterfly passes, and when it dies, he mistakes
the pulse of decay as prelude to reincarnation.
When it liquidates, sludge that leaks into and clogs
his veins, he flatlines himself for three days, his first
heartbreak. But Lord–he will not know of real heartbreak,
at least not the way I do, not yet, not until
he discovers a washing machine. Not until he discovers
an oven. Not until he discovers a clock. He will know then
that the world used to hum and he could have harmonized.
Call me cruel for giving him no tools to make another. Call
me kind for that too. What you will never know, Lord,
what you cannot ever know, is what it’s like to hope
on a breath of a promise, to hold out for an ounce
of an eon. I too, Lord, I too have read decay as renewal–
so forgive a man for making a second man. I’ve only
made one after all. Leave him to his meanderings, leave
him to trample over my footsteps, leave him to realize
he’ll be living forward on marginal decay the way I did.
And one day, when you’re arriving, finally, maybe, never,
may his grief measure up to mine. May the air grow stale
and dead. And may he greet you, my Lord, my robot,
with my last offering. My world for your hearse.
August Cao is a writer from the San Francisco Bay Area with work forthcoming in Reckoning. Outside of writing, she spends most of her time working in tech and enjoying theater.
Photo by Dylan Hunter on Unsplash
