I built a machine to feel things for me. Its
engine burns my rage and its moving parts are
oiled with tears. I gave it a face like mine, but
made of burnished metal, battered and buckled,
like an old coal scuttle. I polish it on
Sundays and keep it in the front room, for best.
It smells of Brasso and dodgem cars. I am
left free to trundle round the world, immune from
harm, while the machine fills up with clinker from
an unbroken heart. I empty it each night
and scatter cold detritus in the garden.
It makes the vegetables taste bitter, but
the roses bloom blood red with thorns like iron nails
that would scratch me, if I were vulnerable.
