c o n v e r g e n c e:
an online journal of poetry & art


by Adam Phillips

the engineers shrugged; no one knew
where the robot had acquired the
sword and it was troubling,

watching it hack
as the rockets on its fingers

sat unused, the atomizer dropped God
knows where—
when the dinosaur men

showed up, shrieking and smirking, pounding their muscular chests, brandishing their long black
forked tongues and loincloths, the robot, programmed to cleanse,
held them down and crushed the backs of their skulls, stepped on their feet and threw uppercuts—

during subsequent attacks,
the giant crabs, their oozing shells stove in, the cyclops, confused and
weeping, smashing through buildings, taking a knee to throw up, skull crushed with the hilt of the sword, in every case a battalion of tanks
and police cars tumbling uselessly underfoot—

it developed a propensity for posing, the robot,
foot propped on a corpse, fist thrust in the sky, grim set of the eyes— by then
we'd forgotten the promised miracle of chips, gears, oil, wires,

metal, pegs, axel, input, batteries, bolts— all of it drowned, fried
in a rain of blood— still, we held out hope of rectifying our mistake,
one way or another, stockpiling brains and weapons

until the day the robot floated into town
cradling the homunculus, tiny machine,
in its cupped hands. I have a message, it said.

I have only ever had one message.
I will repeat it one more time.

GENTLE HAND by Peter Spencer

GENTLE HAND by Peter Spencer

by Jane Blue

The father's cells—his gene pool—
mingle in the mother's womb
and become part of her.

I read this somewhere.

I took only elementary biology
in college. I learned the word
zygote, I learned the word osmosis.

This phenomenon, I guess
is a kind of osmosis, cells seeping
across boundaries. I didn't know then
how soon it would happen to me, how
I was on the verge of meeting that man
who would penetrate me so profoundly
that even his genealogy
would become mine.

Kansas, Missouri, Cherokee.

All those lives trailing behind me
like a dinosaur tail, all the way back
to the Jurassic Age. His lives
with each child. A dinosaur tail.

Those feelings, "I know this place,
these people." All those years
of separation cannot diminish:

Kansas, Missouri, Cherokee.

SPARE PARTS by Matt Veazey

SPARE PARTS by Matt Veazey

by Doug Bolling

The man who fished the seas
swallowed a whale whole

and lived to tell about it,
make poems of how he

began at the stern and finished
at the bow, wiped his lips clean

and sailed home to share triumph
with the wife and kids,

neighbors who stared far out
but never got their feet wet.

He walked with a certain swagger,
held head high in the clouds,

donated the bones to a museum
of champions.

When he died quite suddenly
the ocean shuddered.

1   |  2   |  3   |  4   |  5   |  6

home   |  Table of Contents   |  archive