Photo by Lucas Benjamin on Unsplash
In another lifetime
In a basement in Seattle, a watchmaker solders a metal wing
onto a robot bird, springing it to life with the weight
of gear as engine—motion as ignition. This is the closest thing
to impulse without it being nerve, thrill, or grief.
In another lifetime, fortune tellers read love lines
through circuits and wires, speaking wonders from matrix,
destiny from diagrams. There is more for
the Moon to pull and that metal bird
is just called a bird. See, there are a thousand ways
to count the dead without muttering a single name.
Tragedies are streamed, so the collective can
mourn as one and for all. In that congregation,
a single spark can light up a room, filling it
with incandescence, where you are left breathless.
Directions for another lifetime
When hands are still called hands but the tenderness
of a touch is as close as the latex will let it, look instead.
Find a new method to steal a moment away with a loved one—
ask a con artist for ideas because they have a way of taking things
that isn’t theirs. A thick blanket can lay a body flat
and bury it under day—this is medicine. And so is crossing
the threshold with a knife at the ready
because There is nothing more human than survival.
When there are more factories building metal limbs than
bandages and more scientists brewing calamities than
cures, call the brujas and priests, the bakers and sirens,
the wanderers and students because they will scrape
off the rust, oil the gears, tether the departed, burn
the burning and craft the machine in the reflection of you.