The well-worn trope is this: the parents
malfunction on hearing they will not be
grandparents. I discovered my imagined
offspring were ghost apples, dripping
glass. It dawned on me the way a sneeze
catches an elevator through the body – a
queasy steeling of self before an
explosion of truth. Sam Austin says
homosexuality is god’s way of ensuring
the truly gifted aren’t burdened with
children. Mother, do I need an excuse to
exist?
We have, the data says, a greater
propensity toward compassion. I imagine
a cyborg’s earnest eyes simulating tears.
Kindness & wit are the tools with which
we equip ourselves. Love, when I hold
your hand in public my eyes fire
chemtrail lasers.
The professor at the
TED talk says nature designed us to
ensure the family survives. In the heart of
distress, the mother’s body speaks – I’m
in trouble
. She switches on the ‘gay gene’
to create for herself an ally. Mother, as I
slept small as a dream in you, the
divorce was in full swing
. Is my plasma
extra salty? I imagine veins on a lathe,
blood from your womb’s cave spinning
me into existence. DNA is only code’s wet
counterpart & you housed all the
hardware to make me – your avatar.
When you poured forth your guts was it
to bake the mould that would grow up a
sim, a shield-son, a vessel to absorb the
toxins of this polluted heaven? The
unspoken trope is this: we hatch into the
orchard, hard bodies against soft soil, the
curves of our circuity a mismatch for the
parallel rows of plots. Cacophony of
crickets in the shrub / a haunting of voices.
We age, our futures spoil, ghost
apples thudding to earth. In the trees:
pieces of icy light, son & daughter
shaped.