Let’s play a game.
He palmed my small back into a stoop,
and we disappeared into the tent.
Daddy had set it up with me that morning.
He lay down and un-tucked his shirt.
Now, this is a very special game, and you
are the most important player! I am a robot,
and my parts need oiling, will you fix me?
The skin around my mouth creased as I smiled.
I love robots.
He dipped my pink hands into his metal
crotch, unfolded his wires and released his
gears.
Hand on my head, pressed down to where the
problem was. My tongue lolled and rolled in the appropriate places,
wetting the parts
that he said needed oiling the most.
With a rusty ‘pop’ of air, and a cold shiver,
the game was over. A slither of thick silver liquid
lay dashed across his shirt, and my metal man
let his head thump to the floor.
He was fixed.
That night I sat in my fresh bed sheets, the taste
of iron welded to the roof of my mouth.
Goodnight Son.
Goodnight Dad.
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