Mars looms red, closer than 60,000 years.
Closer than my dead father. I need this to mean
something. To herald an end, or a new species.
You say I am “too involved” with conclusions, obsessed
with the owls that live outside our house.
But you fall in love with automatons
too easily. I crawl beneath your scope, wait
for velocity and your advances. I am patient.
We desire our robots because we don’t love
those we don’t see.
You say that you don’t like plasticization,
though it fascinates me. I need to be your
artifact, your acrylic and keen-eyed doll.
I’ll stand in the den, my back arched—
a beacon for celestial impact.