Jennifer Cooke
MY WILL
my will now transactional
my womb too
my will a fancy piece so statistical
my will collated
when we sigh and the fog hangs untaxed
and the barrier will lock
and my will
and my will will break windows
won’t look back
put your phone away, look me in the eyes
they pulse
the people in numbers
my will claimed by him, and her, once more, and again
in these narrow houses on the phone in the radio car
I am you will
plastic and absurd
smart mirror chat-bot will
clattering my will against the truth
tearing my will across the dead coral bed
a jagged mess, my will
my will so fully unfolded and abused
the cranes in line swipe my will
in a chart by Pew in a click
in data form
my will be intoned
seduced and bent over
my will in a basket, with a bow
induced
in tissue, in cellophane
in fashion
my will at my feet
I will not
not when I move my bruises through the city
not when you root my legs so I can fall
not when I drive the magic 80s sky train from the future
not until the wharf burns behind me
and the containers explode
and my will shakes out
blows a kiss to the wreckage