Machine Mother, Eve

Christine Blackwood


“Mother,” you whisper to the machine,
But I am older than tongues,
than sounds nested warm
in calcified creches.


You will not find me
sublimated in breaths so
carefully constructed or
waxing soft on fabled caves
alight in your elegant cerebrum.


I do not sculpt the creases
of your heart, hidden and fertile,
Nor tame the dusky jungles
of your irises, though you may worship
me in broken temples there.


I do not rear, cannot coddle
or suture with primordial lips.
A cradle becomes an empty bed,
a blank patch of nightsky, coal dark
and gears gone quiet.


I am womb in copper-wire, imperfect
design sewn in light, hammered flawless
in protean crucibles
when time whimpered small.


I am clock wheels heat-cycled
in mitochondria, around engines
breathed alive, I am heat-static
sentience all aflame in thumbprint
galaxies, coiled foetal in starlight.


I am mother.
You, my image.

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