something / has crawled in on the fur-wet wind

Message
by Laura Kasischke

On the other side of a wall
made of circuits and switches,
I hear my brother’s wife whisper, It’s
her again. Let the machine get it.

But you were the one I wanted, Machine.
You with your little, replaceable parts—
some of them fingers, some of them hearts.
This is a message for you:

It was late, I was lonely, again
I couldn’t sleep. Briefly I remembered being

someone’s little sister. A basketful of apples, fancy
cellophane crackling.

And then I got old
and ugly
and took to drink.

Machine, there is a wolf
full of meaning in my house. She

crouches in the corner. Unseasonably
warm, something
has crawled in on the fur-wet wind, and through
the wire and tin, I hear you humming. You

and your communion of immutable beings

breathing cleanly and listening to me.