Individual Parts May Be Salvaged

Individual Parts May Be Salvaged

Alone in the house after my death

the robot powers down my phone,

straightens my cuffs,

wipes away fluids oozing after my fall.

While its moving parts tidy,

its cortex sends notifications —

Ben, your mother has fallen & can’t get up.

Matt, it’s already too late,

but get in your car and drive down here now.

Esther, your daughter’s finally on her way to join you.

She’s still the same,

so if you want to maintain your peace & quiet

you might want to descend to a lower circle

or petition Beatrice for a long overdue pardon.

The robot doesn’t know

it’s reached end of life too.

Recycling an intact elder care robot

has been against the law since 2025

though individual parts may be salvaged.

It’s the impossibility of securely erasing data structures

that dooms the robot’s cortex

& sensory appendages

to be rendered.

My neurons, my ligatures

have begun to unweave.

My life of reconstructed memories

shrivel to stories soon to be no longer told.

To my granddaughter, I gave my tidiness,

to my younger son, my zen,

may the annual library sale profit from my books.

Friends, my undying devotion has died.

I remember every friend I ever had

even if I unfriended them.

Now I’m a dead facebook account,

a dead-letter email.

The robot scans for breached perimeters,

an ill-adjusted thermostat,

running water, a kettle boiling dry.

It livestreams my missing pulse.

It will open the door to the paramedics.

This robot has been awfully good to me,

outstanding at finding my glasses

& prompting me to medicate.

I don’t suppose she misses me.

I sometimes called her Rose.