she lacks an authorial voice
her words, written and spoken
a stream of
predictive text, parroted speech
her critical and narrative content indistinguishable from AI
except AI is more
nuanced, intuitive,
less clichéd, less shrill,

wittier /

stuck in a closed circuit, which she proudly calls her “circle”

and what he euphemistically calls “the perimeter”

regurgitation is their duo’d dialect //

yet, he parlayed

to be her favorite toy, tethered to her scratching post, center stage

and boy,

does she scratch and meow, and meow and scratch, always coughin’ up a whollotta nuthin’

she’s amplified her own monotone acoustics over his

and he doesn’t recognize his own voice

or hear his own thoughts, anymore ///

alone, only in church and in the shower

he confesses,

prays aloud
for his own deafness,
or for the blessed return

of her disinterest — what an ironic twist ////

he offers his cock to her open mouth

at last,

some fuckin’ silence.