“Crypter, crypter, crypter.” “Clear.” It is right
here. The whorl in my ear. The whirl in my
dread. A smear of Morning Star by starlight.
A touch of evil, perhaps. Which is why
it is hard to believe in it. Evil.
I’ve taught it to sit, roll over, play dead.
I read it Shakespeare. It has no menstrual
cycles, though it leaks. What flows is blood red
and grease. Gears. Oil. It’s queer innards. But “it”?
Designed to look female. I’ve been inside.
Touched its cogs. Tightened screws. It just says, “shit,
man, a machine is a machine …” Its cried.
I know that. Tears are also tears. I know
there is more here than chrome and an afro.