“Theremin” by Robert Beveridge

The core of any computer

is the motherboard. Cops,

priests, the Medicis, Lehman

Brothers, all must bow

to circuitry named for the woman

who bore us all. We warm

our hands over resistors,

capacitors, parts none of us

have names for, and expect music.

We feed them: more memory, better

processors (though the days

of the daughterboard are long past)

endless lines of code. And yet

whether they sing seems often guided

by the hands of imps, the whims

of shysters bearing soldered flowers.

Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances include The Literary Yard, Big Windows, and Locust, among others.

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