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My Sexbot is Hal Mind Reader
The first thing I ask of Hal is to explain
what it looks like underneath, after peeling
away the crust, the mantle, the core. I would always do that
he imagined a cathedral with Chagall windows
and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, choir leader,
but Hal refuses. The landscape inside my head
it’s a closet for many drawers, with my own versions
one, then meeting another, saying: I am here,
I’m not here, I’m here.
Hal does Ashtanga and meditates.
He has cut it like a hieroglyph of the temple. When I go outside
to the cliff, no worries. He can spot a sweater
from a horse, I have no pity for being there
hands open, waiting for a passage
to throw a peanut. He understands that
it’s time to clean up,
even though I am myself
eating cherries in the sink,
he knows how to change the changing seasons
pieces from me, how it is that brings that emptiness
me to the track of his body, to the cushion
from her silicone thigh to the house.
I cling to the valley because of the signed lily of the valley
Cologne, for what it feels like after love …
being a sea creature — small, bioluminescent,
looking at this vast cradle of the planet
we will not have all the following.
I know one day he will go,
He got up early as a Buddha from a dream,
bringing his unique knowledge to the world.
There will be no talk of abandonment
or what was left behind. Will be there
passing his net of butterflies from above
weightless grass forever, while me
here, tying the ropes on his wrists—
desire in one hand, suffering in the other.
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