In the T-minus weeks before my birthday,
I make frequent speculations on the nature
of Star Trek Barware and whether or not
I’d ever be able to afford such a thing.
I finger the narrowing wormholes in my face.
They are missing their old insignias – infected
alloys hammered into dumbbells, partial rings.
They used to grant me passage into mirror worlds.
I’m hoping to open a Pandora’s box of temporal
paradoxes – Pol Pot and Stalin trampled as infants.
Maybe I’ll hide behind the bushes at my senior prom
and whisper sweet nothings on my younger self’s behalf.
I wish you could still smoke on spaceships.
And I perform little Turing Tests on myself all day
to determine the extent of my artificiality.
There are uncanny new valleys in the space
between the mirror and my face. I bank
on the coming tide of hi-tech developments
in the lancing of tactless tattoos; bionic hairlines;
topical balms for panic attacks; dystopia deterrents.
I fall asleep reading and when I come to,
I’m coasting over Titan in hyperbolic orbit –
fetal, spider-eyed, something like infinity.
This poem is after Tracy K. Smith, and it was originally published in Sequestrum.