They promised us robotic cars, and solar-powered hoverboards, and (all-inclusive, speed-of-light!) space cruises with our kids to Mars. Instead we got AirPods. They promised perfect avatars, sans acne scars and cellulite— an endless metaversal bliss (your HD Eden, in VR!). Instead we got AirPod Pros. Now we stare at a distant shore and summon gods to part the sea— and will we drown, or will we dance? And how far lies the promised land? And Lord we pray don’t waterlog our AirPods. I watched a film the other night about the lives of orcas. I propped the screen up on my chest, I typed and scrolled and clicked accept, and soon I saw them swimming in the darkness. They have a greater limbic brain, a greater depth (some say) of love— at Seaworld, one orca’s calf was taken from her and she wept; she made a sound no whale had made before. I heard her cry. I heard her so clearly. You want to know the saddest part? I actually like them. I actually love my fucking AirPods. But I would drop them down a grate— I’d grind them to a paste—to know that ancient tongue, those secret names, the sacred tunes their fathers sang; to swim alert yet half in sleep; to mourn a child fathoms deep; to yearn beneath the surface, and yet breathe.
Thanks to Malcolm for looking at this poem.