Androidia

 

The naive complacency,

Coasting, empty mindlessness

That A will lead to B.

That clocks tell the right time.

Power lines feed your home

To make things work.

The happy ignorance of 

not having to understand,

fix, decide, design.

It just is.

They just do.

 

Until they don’t. Until they aren’t.

Suddenly we reopen the

libraries, ask the skillkeepers,

Graduate.

 

Plug me back in. I am

the perfect android. I won’t

deviate, I’ll function as I’m

meant to.

​

​

Clutter, Pitter, Patter.

 

Walls are still white.

Furniture placed there ‘for now’.

Clean folded clothes in a 

Pile is leaning.

Gift bags full of items,

Drawers half open, spilling old

Pyjamas.

A carrier bag,

Leaflets on grief.

But the curtains match the

Bed clothes. The outside spills

Inside. There is much light

From big windows, but no wall to hang my 

Life.

To line up coats and

Dresses that wear me.

I’m a hairdryer cable, tangled.

Old make-up, smeared on a

Light carpet.

Bulbs hang from the ceiling.

A Clinical box with fragments of

Love and flowers.

I can taste the scent. I just 

Need time. But breath is limited,

Divided unfairly.

I give the colour and the

Music to another while

I steal a moment every

Few days. Pieces of a pie.

I add them up.

360º

Thank god.

Another day.

Another possibility. 

​

​

Snowglobe.

 

I’d have made you out

of glass.

So they’d see the care I

took.

To not bang into things,

put the seatbelt under, not

across you.

I’d polish you and

buy twinkly lights to

decorate you for Christmas.

Turn you into a snowglobe.

And I’d know that we were

having fun.

While all the time I could

see her move, dance, I’m sure

she’s dancing. Trying to steal

pieces of white. Can she

hear the music?

 

And everyone else could see you too

and clear the walkways,

Smile with wonder,

cushion me and make a nest of

feathers.

Yes, I’d have made you out of glass. Thick glass.

Full of water like a fish bowl,

A washing machine drum.

We never shatter them.

 

Standing in front of a mirror screen

I’d hold his hand

as the physicians drilled

and watch the water

drain from the sphere.

The opposite of drowning.

And you’d flop, soft and 

nimble like that feather,

The tiny bird    lifeless.

But I’d know you.

I’d have seen you become.

Your redness and your

half open eyes & mouth would

have been what I knew of you.

Those under-formed fingers would

have seemed so formed.

Your feet practically ready to be

walked upon.

 

I’d save the piece of 

broken glass and make a 

mosaic picture to hang on

the wall, to remember the

care I took, which still was

not enough.

I’d mop the floor, shovel

the mirror that was before

me.

Put my skin back on.

Moisturise it. Firm everything

out, perfect it. Get ready

to begin again.

The gazes will stop, no one

cares who I am anymore.

I walk on uneven ground.

Pebble stones, the air is polluted.

I cough but no one even

blinks.

I see the goddesses move about,

gliding, flowers, smiles,

until they’re not anymore.

Shaved head, lost teeth, bruised,

abused, disccarded. Worthless.

I look through the window

and see the snowglobes at

Christmas. The baby Jesus, the

white deer, the

beautiful lights.

My reflection doesn’t belong.

On my own.

I once had a belly made

of glass, with a transparent

womb that held a 

perfect being.

That is all. 

​