Poetry Journal [8]

virtually you
Meah Enya Brooks

the soles of my shoes chew the pavement on my way
to yours, then when I arrive, you’re always
captivated by your phone, like it’s a falling star or
the sound of a song on a Spanish guitar – you’re

completely enraptured, engaged and enticed;
the seconds you glance up are numbered and priced
they’re so preciously rare, but I just want you present,
I just want you there, whole, not this crescent

moon of a person; the half-hearted talks, barely sharing a vibe,
when I may as well shriek for attention or bribe
you to speak as though you’re somewhat intrigued
by the words, but don’t you miss being fatigued

by the words? you’d rather be handcuffed to this machine
which knows what you like, what you’ve seen,
where you’ve been, like the back of your hand
or the front of its screen; despite your commands,

it seems to control you, not the other way around –
you can’t let it go and you jump to its sound
and you panic when it’s more than a metre away
and you can’t live without it for more than a day,

and though there’s no scrolling up or down speech,
there’s a face you can smile at, a hand you can reach
and a much better way to relate and connect,
but you put that on hold like it has no effect.