When I’m Thirty I Receive a Box Full of Your Steel Bones

(First published in Asimov’s Science Fiction)

I remember being young, learning things by

touch. Our cat—what was her name again?—

is the softest, warmest thing;

your hand holding mine, sleek

and cool. When I pet the cat, I say friend,

friend, and my parents smile champagne grins

and snap crooked photos.

When I lie in your arms, soothed by your

jangling lullabies, I say friend, I say love.

My parents look up from their tablets, smiles 

turned upside down. Not friend, they say. 

Help. Not love. Code.

* * *

At night you tuck me in, kiss my forehead with

rubber lips. Sleep, love, you say.

Then you walk yourself to the broom closet,

powering yourself down.

Minutes or hours later, I sneak out of bed, 

and the cat follows, the two of us 

padding downstairs, silent paws and 

footie pajamas. I open the closet door 

on tippy-toes and gaze up at you, see

myself reflected in your shiny steel body.

Wake up, friend.