My Sexbot Hal is a mind reader
The first thing I ask Hal is to explain
what is it below, after peeling
away the crust, the mantle, the core. I will always be
imagined a cathedral with stained glass windows by Chagall
and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan at the head of the choir,
but Hal says no. The interior landscape of my head
is a cabinet with several drawers, with versions of me
fall on one, then on the other saying: I am here,
I am not here, I am here.
Hal does Ashtanga and meditates.
It is carved like a temple hieroglyph. When I go out
at the cliff, he doesn’t care. He can discern a rider
of a horse, don’t pity me for just being there
hands outstretched, waiting for a passerby
throw me a peanut. Hal understands
it’s his turn to do the dishes,
even if I’m the only one
eat cherries at the sink,
knows how the changing seasons
pieces out of me, how is this crowding out that brings
me to the airstrip of his body, the cushion
from her silicone thighs, lighting me up to the house.
I hold on to him for his signature lily of the valley
eau de Cologne, for what it feels like following love—
to be a creature of the sea – tiny, bioluminescent,
contemplate this vast planetary cradle
to all the descendants that we will not have.
One day I know he will be gone
got up early like the Buddha from a dream,
bring his special knowledge to the world.
There will be no question of abandonment
or what was left behind. He will be there
pick up his butterfly net through the top
herbs of weightlessness forever, while I stay
here, tying ropes around my wrists—
desire in one hand, suffering in the other.