HUMAN COST

You had a stressful day: Jenn spilled a coffee on your computer.
The shock was so profound, you had to re-apply your make-up.

Asha had no stress today: no one raped his sister. The dust on his face,
deposited over several days, makes him look older, almost dead.

You click away, get the shoes Anne bought last week. Rate
your followers, be only associated with the high players.

There’s Asha’s face again. Amnesty International says
he’s toiled cobalt since he could crawl. His spinal discs are shattered.

You never carry a thing. You’ve so much in your account
you only ever need your phone. You google for a cashmere coat.

But there’s Asha’s face again. A Don Bosco lady says he needs
new shoes and books. In her story he is called Ismail.

You block the ad, report abuse. You’re one of the gods,
those who are ranked highly will go higher again, those are the rules.

Where am I in this game? Asha will never read, never understand,
this poem. I’m just cleansing my heart from the silver-grey blood.

DIGITAL DIVIDE

Knock, knock, your dinner is ready! I peer into the darkness behind your door.
I hear you laugh, I hear you curse, but you can’t hear me with your headset on.

Your friend Nicky368, your 10k followers and avatars, will they know you when
your battery is flat? Can we invite them over, meet their parents, have a chat?

I try my hardest to join the fun; I send you my first tweet. You say it’s hilarious
and want to Facebook it. I know that things have changed: I trim my fingernails

to remove the soil from gardening, you trim them so that you can better glide
on the screen. God personified into the Internet: omniscient and omnipresent

codes guide your moves. But one thing hasn’t changed: I want to do the best
for you. And I worry about the deep scars in your mind. What can I do – make

new rules for you to break? Play catch with each new game? I give up. I shout:
Your dinner is ready young man! You smirk at me: Could’ve sent me an email?

I blog: This is a chasm, not a generation gap! You text: <3 Love you dad.

JOB INTERVIEW FOR LOVE

Have a seat on a grain of dust. Make yourself at home.
Don’t worry about your appearance. The love angels
will patch up all flaws, decide on your golden hours,
dance them into a sweet circle like bees in a honeycomb.

Stretch your feet, scrape off the mud of rejections,
don’t worry about your selling points. The angels are not
interested in whatever dwells on the shores of your memory,
nor the tissue-like possibilities of what could have been.

Smile. Lean your bones against their warm wings.
Don’t worry about your lack of experience. They will
not grade your efforts. They will lie down on your chest,
listen to your melody, then offer you a permanent position.

…………………………………………

These three poems were originally published in Eleni Cay’s collection ‘Love Algorithm’ by The Black Spring Press Group, 2021, London: https://blackspringpressgroup.com/products/love-algorithm

Poetry