Transubstantiation

They aim to build the metaverse, these bright-skinned white-teethed boys. They
talk breathlessly of frictionlessness, and I think about your skin against
mine, swallow. They carefully enunciate the t in community, and I
wonder if they would take my hand if I asked, and march until
morning comes, dew-stained cheeks and spent lungs. They
dream of a future free of flesh and history. I know that
these weights give me form. Am I flawed, that I do not
wish to be god, formless light fed through wire?
All I pray for in the next world is that you
are beside me when I wake, to have tea to
brew even if I forgot to prepare for the
apocalypse properly. I was too
busy watching you move the
air around you. If you gods
can simulate this light
at the base of
my spine
call it
genesis.

Jasmine Wang is a writer and technologist, searching for a home near some ocean for her grand piano. She is based in the cloud.

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