A Robot Brings Flowers

Poem by Karen Berry

I press upon you 

something dead.

Decay began before 

I snapped the stems

or I might feel remorse

if I were able. 

Remorse is a type of decay 

and I am not alive. 

Remorse is not 

an option for me.

Decay however is: 

Circuitry misfires with time.

Valves rupture O-rings, 

in the daily wear and tear 

of a purely mechanical existence.

I do not fear it. Emotion 

is not one of my attributes.

Neither is affection but there is 

something about mortality

the lack of reparability 

the vulnerable encasement 

of your purely organic existence.

What I mean to say is 

I am mechanical 

but not immune to 

the glory of these blooms. 

Their wilting petals and 

hidden pests brought you 

to mind, the soft and meaty 

state of you, your beauty 

and your death.