They’ll be thirteen, a couple
ticks faster to puberty,
sperm, sex, audio.
Phones: gone. Image
cards will warm her insides
with his rebellious scumstache,
peach fuzz or whatever
it’s to be called, crying
aura— aura
and when he redeems the spells,
cuts her off, she’ll let out
hysterical vibrating Trinity
typescript telehologram
threats: the only words
coming into focus:
I’ll take off this mask and run
outside. Then what?
Mike Wheeler 