building the robot

the pieces come like rain.
bolts & blades. tubes & oil. 
instructions in the mailbox. they read,
"build the robot." i avoid the work. instead,
i mow the lawn. i decapitated the 
thorn weeds. i pray like i used to with
my eyes beneath the soil.
finally though the robot cannot be
avoided anymore. he throbs like a sick limb
beneath the surface of my flesh.
there are billboards that announce 
his omnipresence. "love the robot." "we are
the robot." i have simple time
dreams of searching the forest desperately
for huckleberries. their deep purple stains
beneath my fingernails. the robot
was not inevitable. in fact, i read
a newspaper story that the robot was funded
by a hand without a body. that it milks
our tongues. an endless machine. 
i cease to sleep. i build the robot. i do not
want the robot but here it is. it makes
all the promises i do not want it to make.
it says, "we are gods." my eyes well up.
the birds scatter into the dark hills. they are
furious with me. we used to speak when i
was a child. did i forget their language 
or did they stop trying to converse with me?
soon it is only the robot. i plug it in
where the television used to live. it says,
"all you need is a past." i do not want to share 
anything with it. i feed my memories 
to a turtle in a mountain pond. i look
over my shoulder the whole time. 
the turtle asks, "what are you so afraid of?"
i lower my voice to as soft a whisper as i can
& reply, "i am afraid of my hands." 
the turtle devours them for me. a favor. 
each finger, one by one. then each limb
until i am just a shaking grain. still, the robot
finds me. squeezes my face until i am
a pop of energy, then the relief of dust.