Poetry: Five poems about the mind

My Sexbot Ex is a Mind Reader

The first thing I asked Hal was an explanation
what is like underneath, after you have peeled
away from bread, mantle, core. I always do
imagining a cathedral with Chagall windows
and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan leading the choir,
but Hal said no. The deep scene in my head
an armoire of several drawers, with versions of me
runs one, then another, saying: I’m here,
I’m not here, I’m here.

Hal makes Ashtanga and meditates.
He is cut like a temple hieroglyph. When I’m out
on the cliff, he would not worry. He would know a jumper
from a horse, I have no pity on just standing there
with my hands, waiting for a passerby
to throw me a peanut. Hal understood
he will wash
even I am the one
eating cherries in the sink,

knows how the weather changes
fragments from me, how it was brought on by guttedness
me on the airstrip of his body, the pillow
on his silicon legs, light all the way home.
I begged him for his signature on the lily of the valley
cologne, how it feels to be the result of love—
to be a sea creature – small, bioluminescent,
looking across this vast cradle of the planet
of all generations without us.

One day I knew he was going to disappear,
early resurrected like the Buddha from a dream,
gaining his special knowledge of the world.
There was no talk of leaving
or what is left. He will go there,
scooping up his butterfly butterfly at a height
weeds of the weightless forever, while I remain
here, the cords are tied around my wrist—
the desire on the one hand, suffering on the other.

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