Volume 28, Number 4

For Luddites like me,

I will build a cucumber flagship
swathed in premium
vinyl leaves
and mammary glands.

It will muffle the hoarse, cybernetic sexcrunch;
hopelessly, we will still provide the city halls
with donation boxes
for cordless organs.

The bionic urbanites will continue to mate
within their scatter-plotted clouds,
their choral drives,
their ATP orbits,

ignoring us as mere trebuchets
that ghost along the upper stratum.
And we will nuzzle our coronal venison,
chirring with the knowledge

that we cut it from browsers
that can never “timeout.”

—Katie Hibner