I remember the day I was plucked
from the assembly line, glistening
in polished plastic and naiveté,
docile like a rag doll, collapsing
into the arms of my creator.
I remember nursing my limbs
joint by joint to autonomy,
oil as needed in the crevices
until I could stand upright and fall
like a marionette cut from its strings.
I remember being groomed
for my day in the limelight,
two-toned circles painted
carefully on my head to mark
delicate points of the anatomy.
And I remember telling myself
when my time came, I
would not fear my calling, that
to be strapped in an automobile
and poised for my send away
is the gift of martyrdom, but
the touch of my creator
as he straps me in the seatbelt
is warm and clammy, and
the cold concrete wall ahead
opens its arms in wait for me.