Sara Deniz Akant

Take this cryptic correspondence as – a sound bite skirts my wonder. Am I to crawl
from out the bed to wonder – anti-wonder? The same time each day is just a concrete
form of living, held in abstract. Something other lies besides me – a lump of mask-strapped meat.
It is his breath through rubber tubes that lulls me back to sleep. 10am is sometimes
noon, then ancient garbage piled up against the walls we wake to. I care far too much for what
the paint is called, name our future with emotions that I’ve slapped – on lipless door frames.

Sylvie calls again to say – you know, the home is dripping. Chandler calls to say – oh, so now
you date a real man. Still, I like to put my headphones in with nothing playing; pretend
it only takes one bulbous imperfection – to make the whole thing beautiful.

Then I toss the tiny plastic bag back on his cyborg meat-suit. We fake our artificial sleep
with four brand-new machines: first, the one that cleans the air – and then the one
that moves it. The one that wets it – and then one that amplifies its depth through long
experimental roars. Maniac birds make chirp all night – they came here straight from hell.
The fifth machine drinks muscle milk and is – composed of human.