A.I. Lies

Of course, it does. Everyone does. 

The sky’s not blue, and the grass—

well—even in your first language, 

green wears a different name, 

and somewhere, in some universe, 

I’ve heard one plus one is something else,

and the man I claimed 

didn’t love me, now I say

he built a temple 

of my youth. Even my childhood, 

which I have discussed 

at length, was not the moonscape 

I made it seem. It was a mess 

of stars, burnt palace, 

cataclysm of wonder. 

Why, even now, my dying mother

sings her regret 

with the sound of a singing bowl, 

which rings and rings, 

even after it ends, tolls 

the cranium 

like the so-called Om 

they say made us, 

about which we lie,

for who can capture

the song in our skin, 

our fingers and feet, 

our every shimmering cell? 

Originally published in Poets Reading the News