Note: Yes, I hate my IPhone. I understand its value, but resent that it has taken over the (my) world. As always, one preaches to oneself as much as everyone else. I teach and work in Connecticut, where I make my students put their smart phones away in class. (Yes, I can see you texting under the desk.)
CULT OF THE APPLE CHILDREN
Charlene hates her IPhone.
Mostly, that she has to wait
in line at the Genius Bar
for some twelve-year-old
wearing perky like a uniform.
The last time she cracked its glass,
Apple Child Eve said—
not to Charlene, mind you,
but to her colleague—
she doesn’t have everything saved to The Cloud
(I’m standing right here, Charlene thought),
as if not saving to the cloud equated to
Judas betraying Jesus at Gethsemane.
And when she told them
she preferred not to
they looked at her like she’d sprouted
extra lungs outside her body
and was blowing them
like trumpets around Jericho.
All she wanted was a working phone
that loaded as fast as let there be light.
She didn’t need the apps and the knowledge
of the tree of good and evil
the Apple Children promised.
It was enough to make
her buy a Samsung
except she believed her data
wouldn’t transfer, so she was locked in,
the geniuses around her whispering
about how sweet the fruit
was. Just one bite, they promised,
and the world was yoursssss.
© 2019 Laurel Peterson
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