Tonight's Poet Corner: The Stoic Are Not Always Robots

The Stoic Are Not Always Robots
by Belinda Roddie

Sympathy is not in my vocabulary. It is not
built into my motherboard, or lighting up
my circuits. I am more carbon than silicon, but
the cardiovascular rhythm in my chest is not
a response to ecstasy, or pity, or love.

I wait outside until you stop crying, then
return to your room with something strong
to drink. This is how I cope with others'
feelings. This is how I imbibe emotions:
Tiny sip by tiny sip, so I never really taste
it, and it's much easier to stomach.

When you look up at me through salty
glazed eyes, I know you're searching for
gray matter beneath my skull instead of
chips and gears. The truth is, you and I
both run on electrical currents - the burst
of nerves and synapses, those fragile wires
leading to Tesla's towers so they can erupt
with physiological fire. We are chemicals

in glands bulging like bags behind our eyes
and mouth and forehead, the bile threatening
to spill into our words and thoughts and secret
wishes. The only metal in me is an artificial
kneeplate after I ruined my patella in a soccer

game, and the coach stared, wide-eyed, as my
vision remained clear, and not a single tear dropped
from my perfect, glassy gaze.