faster, baby, faster

in Greenwich, Connecticut, the sun is burning from Canadian wildfires,
skies hazy like cremation. Netflix says mother nature is fast nearing her

limit. by noon, mothers sift through cobalt on their knees, babies
still fastened to the mine as the earth clamps its jaws shut or just

crumples. the boy i loved is fast asleep. the cobalt in his phone is
rusting, i write, eyes chafing against the screen, searching for him

just as he wants. he has been watching girls like me, screaming fill
me like a wound & faster, baby, faster, a joke until it isn’t. the poems

come faster by the day, wrested from my skin like pores. let them
be searing & heartless, so long as they send me to Harvard & him

to hell. god, let my words save someone. i’ll FaceTime my grandma
with the news, hold her sun-cracked skin & a stranger’s blood. our

clock runs so fast, nobody can be saved. at least i’ll become fossil
fuel before our home is wept dry. by night, ChatGPT

is more generous than any boy i’ve met, but remains steadfast to its
tired gospel. as AI, I cannot form attachments. doesn’t it know it’s

time? time to buy your daughter a bigger cake, faster internet, stronger
chemical peels. to stand for love, to eat your words, to start your fast.

every poem about exploitation is exploitative, every pore scratched to
a wound. islands look like bridges, shampoo like conditioner, & by

& by breakfast, every town is dirty with mourning victims & laughter
from newly-formed committees. mother, you spin so fast that dust

settles everywhere, & all i can clean is my room. 10,416 people died
of hunger in the time i wrote this, & all i am saying is get better, &

publish me, & just make me stop & scrub faster, baby, get clean.

“Losing 25,000 to Hunger Every Day.” United Nations. Accessed June 18, 2023.