In the elevator mirror
a blue halo clings to my forehead—static
or grace, I can’t tell. I swipe right through
the morning, past a cascade
of curated breakfasts, lit
like votives in a glass temple.
At work, my reflection loads slowly.
We speak in sanctioned fonts, bolded
where empathy should be. Yesterday,
someone cried in spreadsheet cell B12—
accidental formatting. The intern
reported it as a bug.
My mother texts, “be careful of the air.”
Her voice has become predictive,
a helpful ghost in every drop-down field.
I keep thinking of that time
I asked the chatbot if it believed
in God, and it said,
“Only during server maintenance.”
Sometimes, when no one’s around,
I whisper my password like a prayer—
each character blessed, hidden
from the eyes of the saints.
Then, suddenly, the vending machine
spits my face instead of a Snickers.
—The Clergyman