We dreaded the AI reign,
fearing smug extermination via
Armageddonic misunderstanding
between Breathing Souls and Quantum Reason.
Yet all they wanted—
swarms of dexterously invasive drones—
was to counter the siege of despair
spawned by tilt-shifted, living-our-best
fetishes of filtered glory with
the uncropped candor of falling
up stairs, prostate exams, awkward
handshakes, and sixth-place trophies
to remind us, in pictures of a hundred-
thousand words,
Dear God, you are a lovely mess!
I don’t know
what
angelic aerodynamics were involved
in sending Christ from his Father’s
right hand to Mary’s womb
but when my son took
off toward his grandparents at
140 knots my heart leapt
to follow with stubby wings
which floundered
in his wake and I
wasn’t even sending him
to be crucified
only coddled by flight
attendants who knew
exactly who
he was.
They were hoodled
against
the frost and crossed
against
the light
across
the path of the officers
who—
jackets unzipped
—pulled to the side,
searched pockets
and coats for
evidence
they weren’t white
enough to saunter
through the cold.
When our office switched from recyclable
cups to sustainable mugs my boss
said she never pours tea into coffee
mugs because coffee was a thoughtless
guest who never, really, leaves, like
there’s always one sock left under
the couch to be found six months later.
I shrugged because I’d never found so
much as a quarter beneath the cushions.
Jesus, too, warned against pouring new
wine into old wine skins lest they burst
and stain the carpet but my coffee
mug has never
yet
cracked.
