By Amirah Al Wassif.
There is a hole in my sock—no, I’m not here to play the part
Of the starving sage who finds god in a ruin.
I’m sitting here, staring at the ceiling’s dampness, wondering
If I’ll die suddenly next month, just as I’ve always
Expected. Or if the world will just finish itself
Without anyone making an extra effort to walk
A funeral. I’m trying to write this poem original.
We are in the age of Artificial Intelligence, a time when
Some people hear the moon’s voice at night reciting
Startling hymns, while my neighbor hides
Larvae and debt notes under her lace pillow.
And while Mr. X touches himself,
Others write poems in the form of prompts.
Time is flexible like that; it fits everything.
Personally, when I want to feel young, I let my braids
Wander freely over my shoulders. When I want
To grow up, I pile my hair high.
How do you dream with your eyes open?
Yes, wide open—exactly like having Alzheimer’s.
How do you watch people’s wounds waving?
Before you without blinking?
How do you remain a statue and never shed a tear?
How can you be sensitive and a machine at the same time?
