For while I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires.
Monster, Frankenstein
If computers expunge humanity,
would their pulsing motherboards
replicate human flaws?
Drones with nervous tics
scratching themselves in public,
or cluttered microchips multiplying
data, hoarding fragments
of cursive. Perhaps some
would dab watercolor light
onto rough press paper,
glide a bow, suffer
the trembling strings to mourn.
Would the warbler’s chipped
trill, the moon-white orchid,
stir their sensors, the Luna’s
lobed wing brush
mystery into code? And if
they chose a god to humble
them, prayed to their creators’
human ashes, would we
kindle ourselves, put on
the Godhead, breathe in translucence—
claim this progeny our own?