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Jul 2020
Function—
where time slows itself amongst the spring petals,
suspended in disbelief, a viscous clarity, a freezing *******,
where even physali and gerbera meet their maker.
And, for such, too, do I pray, world orb in hand,
rattling from its industrial chain links,
an inhospitable world, the only one I know.

It is a world
that I would tuck under my collar, the subtlest bump
raising eyebrows amongst all at the orphanage
for fear I was one of the loved, the created,
the different, unlike them:
one night, one mistake, and nine months of regret.

Forme—
I do not know my maker.
I do not know why she made me.
But I'm sure that it wasn't easy,
amidst the blizzard,
in a world not unlike my own,
with nuts and bolts and brains
and all that.
Roboticist creates synthetic humans and adorns them with snowglobe necklaces.
Yang Yan
Written by
Yang Yan  Utah
(Utah)   
257
   Austin Morrison
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