Versona
I could have kept talking with Susan after she died,
told her everything, though that would only have been
speaking to the parts of myself that had wanted to go
with her. Then a website offered to create a chatbot
of her, my lost love, by waiving the wand of unofficial
intelligence over a file of photos, videos, voicemails,
emails, memories supplied, and, voilà, a virtual
persona that would listen and answer. And smile
that smile. So I would never have to say goodbye.
But I had to say goodbye. And I have a new love.
Denise. We talk mornings in bed, when fog horns
commune with the cargo ships. I do not tell her
everything. So what I really need is a chatbot of her.
To try things out on. Things I have never told anyone.
What I see when the trap door opens. Where I fear
even the lit road leads. Things that might make even
the bot want to leave. And the bot would figure out
what I am still not saying. Things I don’t know myself.
Denise would want to speak with her. I would need
to explain. She would tell each of us whatever
we want to know. Different versions of everything.
The Hood
Ken Haas lives in San Francisco, where he works in healthcare. His first book, Borrowed Light, won several awards. Ken has been nominated for multiple Pushcart Prizes and serves on the Board of the Community of Writers. His poems have appeared in over 50 respected journals and numerous anthologies.
The Marbled Sigh 