August 2018 Poetry Feature: Emily Waknine

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


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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