Antinous' Ring
Three Poems
by S. L. Alderton
Memento Mori (Sedleç)
in this holy tomb
I envy each shoulder blade
transformed into a flower petal
each skull and jawbone
garlanded on the chandelier
even the phalanges
sewn into raven feathers
on the coat of arms
what a blessed state
freed from all identification
save humanity
here to wait for resurrection
as one brushstroke
on a candlelit canvas
in the gallery of Time
I would choose this
neither man nor woman
no race, no country
only art, only beauty
no protest in the face of death
only silence, only flame—
yes, this I would choose.
Rod Serling Monologue
Picture if you will
an ordinary American waiting room.
Pastel paintings on the wall
made to be looked at
but not seen
light music made not to be heard
just loud enough to cover a heartbeat
a fine concrete view
through the bullet-proof glass.
It’s nothing you haven’t seen
every day of your life before
but look closely—there’s something here
that tells us we’ve stepped beyond
ordinary everyday America
into the Twilight Zone.
Behind the counter—
not a bored secretary
with bags under her made-up eyes
but a shiny steel robot
only capable of smiles.
It moves in clockwork turns
from one apprehensive face to another.
A girl’s number is called.
She stands all knees and elbows
old enough to know how dangerous
everyone else finds her
not old enough to know what danger is.
She walks to the desk
as if she doesn’t quite believe in gravity.
The robot asks
in cheerful tones
if she can prove she is human.
She starts with biology—
pulse, breath, blood.
The robot smiles and rotates its head.
She tries law—
birth certificate, high school diploma,
driver’s license.
It’s not enough.
Shaking she attempts philosophy—
surely only a human could write
these awful love songs
or carve this boy’s name into her arm
or pray this earnestly
to something she’s not sure she believes.
The robot smiles
and suggests dissection.
And when this girl’s every layer is laid bare
upon the faux-granite countertop
not a single cell
passes the test for “human.”
A man’s number is called.
He is only capable of smiling.
His skin shines like silver.
He moves in clockwork motions to the desk
and he knows every right answer
and he passes every test
and he and the robot smile at each other
over the ruins of a girl
and the robot hands him a card
and says, “Welcome.”
Yes, ladies and gentlemen,
you may be sure you are human
because you made the machine you’re watching
but rules can so easily turn like screws
or buck like broken gears
right around the corner
in the next town over
in the Twilight Zone.
Weevil
slow mechan
ical motion
stiff jointed legs
long flat feet
face fae
with antennae
and feelers
a metallic
shine
so alien
in this carpeted
hallway
on a sunny morn
ing empty
of fear
to you I confess
my mortal sin:
you were made
from carbon
like me
on earth
like me
but I killed you
for your
strangeness
though I knew
I too
am a slow
ungainly thing
measured by
mercy.
S.L. Alderton is a poet and librarian living in Denver, CO. Her work has appeared in literary magazines and anthologies including 2River View and Twenty Bellows. She is also the author of the chapbook Dreaming in the Wastes.