mother camera

i want to be surveilled.
sometimes i look into eyes & notice
a red ring which means that person is a robot.
i do not run but instead picture the video
they're getting of me walking to my car.
my apartment building has a camera in the front
& one in the back. i am a particle.
i am a gift-wrapped army man. 
tell my favorite color. tell me what it is
i'm culling the sand for. i bought
a metal detector to look for ancient coins
& square-head nails. the whole world is held together
by a few firm whacks. one big bridge.
but also a gravity graveyard. we put so much trust
in everything to keep moving down. 
i wave at the camera & ask if she's proud of me.
she does not respond. i put her birthday in my phone.
an alarm so i remember to thank her.
what kinds of gifts to cameras like?
a nest made of wires? footage of me 
praying to the old wooden gods? i will confess
to anything these days. i have nothing left to hide 
other than that sometimes hate both the words
"survivor" & "victim" but i want to be both.
i take comfort in the knowledge this will 
be easy for you. cradling warm images of me
until there's no me to watch. let's go 
down to the stream. i'll go barefoot.
even my feet have faultlines. i could have been
a good movie some years back but not so much now.
now i am a dreadfully reliable life. i ask her if 
she wants to see my finger prints.
they have gotten so much louder this past year or so.
she says, "no i already know them."
i nod, feeling silly. like i don't have
anything left to offer. instead, i let her watch me dance.
by the time i'm done i almost forget she's there. 
panting. red hula hoop. cameras in my eyes. 
i'm getting everything. it's comming as ribbon.