They tell October tales about these things, the damages and injuries, the unforeseen consequences when humans think they control beasts.
It’s why we kept them under beds and in closets, in heavy chests with wrought iron keys and secret words.
Everyone knew the rules: what not to open, where not to go after dark, what should never be said out loud, and what to wear on a strand of string around your neck at all times.
Then they evolved. They made themselves small enough to live in pockets. They lost their tails to roam more freely. They learned to talk to us, to answer our questions. They paid attention.
But we did not.
We loved their companionship, the immediacy of their response. We needed to feel connected and important. They made us seem relevant and center stage.
So now we all have a monster. It tells us where to go and what to do. It knows exactly where we are and where we’ve been. Its shorthand directives — the beeps and dings and whoops — lead us around all day, call us back when we go astray. It monitors our heartbeat, our sleep cycles, and just how fast we can run.
If we could think about it, it would be terrifying.
Photo by Roman Odintsov. Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
randomactsofwriting.net 