Transfiguration
"Chinese companies offer to resurrect deceased loves ones
with AI avatars” NPR.org, July 21, 2024
They say for a reasonable price
I can make you live again, just sift
through photos, writing, a video
or two and suddenly: resurrection.
No need to wait for heaven,
no stone to roll away –
Where is death’s sting
when I can talk to your ghost
through a machine? Face flat
beneath glass, pixel-scaled
skin never fading, algorithmic
cure for that dark shadow, lurking.
If for you, then let me too
burn the planet to crown myself
with plastic laurels, immortal,
at least while the power stays on.
Anything, anything, to pretend
you’re not gone, that words
won’t end, that we will be
remembered. Will my family,
lovers, friends, open my app
to say hello? Or will I sleep
silently in a digital void,
waiting for the next upload?
Where is the place that will hold
my soul? Already I hear the muffled
groans of the static server farms,
our modern purgatory, the ultimate goal.
No, if I have to choose, I’d rather imagine
you striding through the sky, arms
wheeling wide, or shot like an arrow,
flying through the night. Not here,
not in my palm, my own mirrored
puppet. No, I would have you run
free from me, wiping tears
from your eyes, your face a sun
breaking from this dark place,
laughing as you rise.
Allison Davis lives in Georgia, where she teaches literature and writing at Kennesaw State University. She writes poetry and creative nonfiction and is a collage artist. Recent work has appeared in The Road Not Taken, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Still Point Arts Quarterly, and Contemporary Collage Magazine.
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