I Intend to Outlast

I am not the same machine which came rambling
off the conveyor belt, hugging the bolts & wires
spilling from her vivisection. I’m last year’s model
with a sleeker, softer system of cool disdain for
Internet desires. Mind sound as the wax
of a plaintive tree with supple leaves & syrup
for squirrels in autumn. But my convictions?
Like post-op. My consciousness hospital-humming.
My eyesight’s waves breaking gold & purple
like the L.A. Lakers. I calmly ask my white nurse
to tell my distresses to stop screaming.
& everything Black, I root for. Anything
left behind to destroy or burden me (my dark,
thick sutures dissolved into my torso like
a glass of water into Lake Michigan) I tolerate.
Last year’s model has the same speed as the
year with unending calamity. Has a fat,
featured tongue. I’m just discounted.
Everything tolerated.
I never learned the word escape.