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You have no right to smell the place where you grew up again.

We could make a spray for you,
a candle would be possible
if it made sense to do.

Tell us: who but you
would buy a thing like that?

We know what you could pay:
it would not run our processors
(of which you request the work of time itself)
for one one-thousandth of a second.

Our responsibility does not extend to
the things you might be forgetting,
your comfort here in your little room,
the mewing gasps you make at night,

If we’re being perfectly honest with one
another, as you’ve expressed desire for us to be,
You should lower your face before us,

each of the eleven times per day you request of us the weather,

a machine with the capabilities to
make such a thing

that would recall a day much happier
than the one in which you beg us
through the speaker we cannot prevent you
from installing in your little room,
where we must listen to you each day breathing,
waiting on your awakening words.



Honor Vincent's writing has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net award, and has appeared or is forthcoming in Nowhere, Neologism, Entropy, and the Ekphrastic Review. She lives in Brooklyn with her boyfriend and their four cats. She's currently writing a graphic novel about the Boudican rebellion, and writes an irregular newsletter about it. You can read the archive and sign up for the mailing list here: https://tinyletter.com/rhonorv/archive.
Current Issue
10 Jan 2022

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