In the Silo
I recall the surgeons bent by their work
across the patient: tall,
rough in metal skins--
multicolored, yet all dull tones.
Beheaded three times of its single threat.
Never anticipating eventual re-mating,
but held unarmed,
awaiting passive signals or potent birth.
Mindless, but no monster.
All seeming about some harmless device--
wired,
lost in all those minor techniques.
Wise of their youth;
two stripes, and three, trained above this potential;
Wiring with the confident skills
of all who doctor life.
Tools,
never so terrible as what they tighten
or unleash.
Never smeared of the blood
they might heat.
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