A Robot Eats Fruit
Poem - by Megan Branning
I see the bowl of fruit
they leave in the kitchen
across from the lab.
The brown-eyed one
silently eats a banana
on her break every day.
One night, when they’re gone,
and the lights are out,
I take one for myself.
Pleasant weight in my hand.
But my fingers crush it,
fruit flesh bursting from the skin.
It splatters on the wall,
on the floor tiles,
and on me.
In the morning, she says
I have gunk in my joints
and must be cleaned.
She tells me I am made
to handle other things,
things they cannot touch.
Clean again, I am left alone,
and return to the kitchen
for the shining plum.
The tall one once
read to me about plums,
so cold and sweet.
I want to know
how cold and sweet feel.
I reach for it.
It smashes in my grip.
Juice drips into my servos.
I cannot open my hand.
All night I look at it,
skin hanging from my fingers,
nectar running down my arm.
It trickles to the floor,
each drop distinct,
like rain on a window.
In the morning, he scolds me.
“What would you do with a plum?
You have no tongue to taste it.”
I receive a better hand.
How strange and light it feels,
how foreign to me.
Each finger moves independently.
I can control how fast or slow,
how hard they close.
I pick up an apple,
cup it gently, let my sensors
caress its glistening surface.
It is wider at one end
and has a stem, but no leaf.
It gives just a little when I squeeze.
I do not harm the fruit this time,
but when I bring it to my mouth,
I have no jaw to open.
No lips to feel, nor tongue to taste.
And I wonder what it must be like
to eat things such as this.