August 2018 Poetry Feature: Emily Waknine
To fall short.
I just read a post that said:
Your future sex robot could be hacked
and programmed to murder you
A message from the user named God.
But what if your wildest future fantasy
was set to self-destruct in the act of
Day-dreaming your personal Eden
With Adam, Eve or the forbidden fruit
Granny Smith
Macintosh
Harvested in Canada
Manufactured in China
Transplanted to California
Where things can get sticky
But not wet
Data storage
Keeping cool
In the drawer
Of a crisper
Rotten ones
Keep quiet
Because without a sense of smell
There is a keener reception to sound
Higher frequencies vibrate the leaves
Wind rustling the tallest branches
Where there is a sour apple
That does not fall far.
Psychology today
Freudian slips in text messages
Thoughts of a woman in a man
Feelings of a man in a woman
Feelings of both in neither
Playing on maternal instincts
Preying with paternal insight
Machined edges
Buffing the corners of your screen
Hard light, soft focus
Dancing in between worlds
Tight rope walking on an ethernet cable
Gone wireless
Insecure attachment bonds
Stocks rise and fall every minute
People are volatile investments
High risks and rewards
Not sure I know fully what I am getting into,
Google search engines searching for answers
The answer is in the algorithm.
In spirit, if not in a letter.
All I have are my pictures but they do not belong to me,
They belong to the people they are of -
Creepier words never spoken so earnestly
Capturing souls through a shutter
Essences in a gesture,
Soft and yielding, the spirit moves through me.
As thoughts and feelings are not all mine,
They are shared by quietly attending to
The ones that end up on a playlist.
Feedback loops
Finding Loopholes
Or small knots in trees that rest in the trunk of your body,
Swung from branches,
From earlier forms
Form less, in spirit.
Grandma's hand's
I have my grandmother's hands,
The ones that mend roses on veils
I have my grandmother's hands,
The ones that move rapidly with speech
I have my grandmother's hands,
Softened edges of a stone
Pressing against palms
Palms pressing against palms pressing
Against palms pressing against
Palms pressing
Against the cards folding
fingers into each other,
Dame la mano
Similar strain
That is alright, we can bury our noses in books
Words can paint a prettier picture,
We can strain our eyes to see
Our own humanness
And carry pain in our necks.
With denial of personal history,
Neglect of historical truths
It boils down to
People afraid
of their own shadows.
Knowing becomes more important,
It is easier to trust eloquence over honesty.
Understanding that viewing things more objectively
Does not mean to define every encounter,
Or to place it on its shelf.
Express the truest lessons you have ever learned
We are all at different places with challenges,
But I can feel a similar strain in spirit
Regardless of where you came from,
Good luck on your journey.
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