I

When I turn into a dishwasher, I can’t see, but I have a distinct sense of being. I am in the world. I am a machine. I feel the outline of me, the space I take up. My metal skin is definite, I am drawn with sharp lines; there can be no confusion about where my body ends and the world begins. I feel the empty cavern of my dish racks, the function of my body and I itch to spray from my rotating arms. A beautiful shining box. A beautiful shining box with purpose. I hum with potential. Switch. Me. On.