If it’s true that objects retain their memories
of being handled, used, even properly admired
for their efficiency, like a spoon, or diminished,
like a toothpick that once was part of something
grand, like a pine or a sequoia,
then it’s no wonder that some objects
carry themselves with a kind of stainless dignity,
while others seem to enjoy revenge, become splinters
under our fingernails, never forget their capacity
to right a misuse.
And if it’s true that all objects
made by us soon take on their own personalities,
yet also are driven by what we can’t conceal in ourselves,
this may account for the kind of Frankensteinian power—
meltdowns, monstrous behavior—our children,
no matter how loved, develop to withstand our willfulness.
And if it’s true that they remember being treated
like cogs or toothpicks, or even machines that work perfectly
in public, let us not be surprised when, years later,
they break down in private.