Her left arm was lost in the Moon War.
Along with her eyes, and her mouth,
And her guts don’t quite work right
Sometimes, she spits up screws
And wires and things from inside
Where her body is rejecting her new bits
On dates, at meetings, at social gatherings
People reach out and shake that new hand
Her eyes light up in pain
They flash and roll back into her head
And, if the hand-shaker is lucky,
The girl’s secret stash of money
– hidden in her strange, new chest cavity
– pops out.
Usually, only chewed up screws
Lost teeth, bits of yesterday’s dinner
They call her randomized response girl
They call her Lady Luck, in Vegas.
Or, her Christian name: Beatrix Fortuna,
fallen from the cockpit
After that giant robot battle
One time, a lucky robot shook her hand
Her metal heart fell out of her mouth.
“Give it back,” she said, to the robot.
Instead, the robot kept it. He had won it, after all.
Then, he opened his chest cavity.
He pulled his diamond heart out.
He placed it in her palm,
oozing boiling mercury
down her metal palm.