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when my father reprograms my mother {

my mother becomes unbreakable
   angles like a subway map
   glitter bubblegum steelhard cyberwoman
   a Galatea in Python too cold to share a bed with
she boneless titanium I can’t do a portrait of b/c she is monochrome & when I ask her abt colors she talks abt RGB & hexadecimal codes

b/c my mother is over forty she doesn’t need breasts anymore,
not even plastic, not even to cry on. instead of a heartbeat I could duet with
she has an armory
   with guns crammed together inside her wirecage ribcage like teeth
   her wirecage ribcage asphyxiating anything that dares to crave oxygen
when I ask why, my father claims to protect me is to love me is to reprogram my mother’s tenderness
make her a war machine mother, a recursive forest thicket of uncrossability

I poke at my mother’s Ariadnesque wires & ask how it feels
   like hell, she replies,
so I spoonfeed her adjectives until she short-circuits underneath my fingers b/c I know this is the only way my mother can hurt me
when my mother yells at my father he
   turns her off & then back on

how do you dream, mother?
   in binary & psalms
   i’m trapped in neurostatic, baby
my mother wakes up at night screeching b/c her neurons grind against each other
my father claims she is just too stupid for her brain to hold galaxies
her mind to store this universe
   where her child could die
   & the next universe
      where her child could die
   & the next universe
      where her child could die
she mumbles fever dream prayers thru stainless steel lips
my mother still tender with her calculated allocated affection }

even robots believe in god / but I believe in my mother



Caroline Mao is a writer and student at Mount Holyoke College who enjoys fiction of all kinds, post-nineteenth century art, and smiling at every dog she sees. Her Twitter is @northcarolines.
Current Issue
26 Sep 2022

Would a Teixcalaanli aristocrat look up at the sky, think of Lsel Station, and wonder—with Auden—"what doubtful act allows/ Our freedom in this English house/ our picnics in the sun"?
I propose that The Expanse and its ilk present us with a similar sentiment, in reverse—a warning that for all the promise of futurism and technological advancement, plenty of new, and perhaps much worse futures are right before us. In the course of outrunning la vieux monde, we may find that we are awaited not simply by new worlds to win, but also many more which may yet be lost.
where oil slurped up out of the dirt, they drink the coffee
Science fiction is a genre that continues to struggle with its own colonialist history, of which many of its portrayals of extractivism are a part. Science fiction is also a genre that has a history of being socially progressive and conscious – these are both truths.
Bring my stones, my bones, back to me
If we are to accept that the extractive unconscious is latent, is everywhere, part of everything, but unseen and unspoken, and killing us in our waking lives, then science fiction constitutes its dreams.
they are quoting Darwish at the picket & i am finally breathing again
Waste is profoundly shaping and changing our society and our way of living. Our daily mundane world always treats waste as a hidden structure, together with its whole ecosystem, and places it beyond our sight, to maintain the glories of contemporary life. But unfortunately, some are advantaged by this, while others suffer.
Like this woman, I am carrying the world on my back.
So we’re talking about a violence that supplants the histories of people and things, scrubbing them clean so that they can fuel the oppressive and unequal status quo it sustains.
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By: Cat T.
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