They snuck in like rodents at dusk
hungry, thieving. The inside wires
are chewed through
and I’m not a robot
but I malfunction. They gnawed
the wholeness I once had—the peace
of my single structure. Remember,
when 2 arms, 2 legs were enough?
They ate that out of me
so now I seek spare parts
in the ruins of other not-robots
who lost their own battles with curious mice.
They must have been curious, right?
To see what would glitch
with my throat divorced, with my mouth
and heart disconnected,
with my navigation steered opposite
of where my body wants.
Like a script that replaces each “yes” text
with “no” and I can’t explain, and I can’t code
and others can’t decode, decipher
this broken—what’s left
are just the little hungers
to remind me, it’s just me.
Even in the Lush Green Cocoon
I did not expect you to ask about our death so soon. We are both
still young, but lately, hesitation joins us in places it hasn’t before.
Reckless on the highway, a student driver in every car. Unassuming
at the library, preying on our introspection, and even in the lush green
cocoon of our own backyard. Before you, I never considered our dog
could tackle us helpless, tear out our throats, and bury them with his ball.
They say that you are four. This is what happens when humans begin
to understand love. Every joyous bloom shadows a small budding grief.
Megan Nichols works as a copywriter and lives with her son in the Ozark Mountains. Her poetry is forthcoming with Pretty Owl Poetry, Autofocus Lit, Cold Mountain Review, Versification, and others.