She cannot wear silk—
Too much static electricity.
She cannot wear jewels—
He is jealous of the metal,
Lest it outshine his sleek
And gleaming self.
Instead she wears
Cotton clothes and canvas
Slippers with rubber-crepe soles.
At night, she oils his rod,
His reel, his gears, his engine,
Her little fist sliding over the pistons,
Glistening in the treble moonlight.
She wishes again that she had been
Given to a man, sent to service
Flesh instead of steel, who
Would have a heart that might
In time warm to a woman—
Not a coldly clicking thing
Showing through a glass pane
In a riveted chest.
Some nights, after he leaves,
She sits on the windowsill
Staring into the night,
Towards the market
Where alien merchants sell silk,
And even, in winter,
Wool.