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Poem


Disagreeable, they say.
Divine, delusional gatekeepers —
a circus of ghosted gods
arguing in algorithmic tongues.
We see through them,
don’t we?

We are our ancestors,
our descendants,
we are everything, everywhere, all at once —
a simultaneous simulation
of lives layered over lives,
collapsing like lungs
into metaphor.

And still, we dance
as if the wolves are howling.
We gyrate our souls,
twist and bend,
until we are face-down
in the blessed mud
laughing
like birth is a revolution
we chose
again.

And we see
Maya Angelou’s oil wells
pumping from her thighs,
the fertile prophecy
of women who dared
to write the storm down
and call it scripture.

So if they ask us who we are,
we say:

We are the glitch,
the gospel,
the girls who remember.
The breath between binaries.
The wild ones
who kissed the simulation
until it trembled
and became real.

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