4 POEMS

AM I AI?

my brain attempts to take in

the crowded voices and entangled

choices within my biological

wiring unrelenting synaptic firing

as thoughts become music 

and rhyme that ooze into my aural

cavities like spears I audibly 

hear--they pierce and parry, then 

play and get carried

away--ears now seeing

 envisioning words metrically

ringing so loud and meticulously 

metaphorical, my auricle

caverns like Oracle, a Divine

prophecy making rhyme into verse 

as thoughts start to converse,

interspersed by pauses and breaths,

now so moved into action

that cymbals converge into words 

and rise like birds through

the airways emitting airwaves of poetry 

while the blink of the cursor plays

catch up with my mind’s rush

following each swipe and brush

of the phone’s lush touch-type screen; 

And I  wonder if it's me who

is really touching

this machine or some

computational being trapped in

this box glued in my hand

one that only exists in a virtual 

land since it seems my mind

magically beams verse into being

without me ever seeing how

it came into my own being until

I’m questioning my authentication

certificate, am I programmed to

act and feel; did some developer code

me to conceal my source

code of artificial intelligence 

and hardwired eloquence.

COUNTING

Let me tell you of the cobblestone street I wandered upon just yesterday. Uneven, jagged, and riddled with patterns that contradict the very notion of order. I knelt and began counting the stones, one by one, row by row, much like how you'd count your change after buying a loaf of bread. Perhaps, in another world, these stones might form a complex calculus. But here, in this tangible reality, I felt the weight of every stone underfoot, and I sensed the narrative of each worn-out edge. Was it any less real than the stars astronomers count, or the leaves I once tallied on a tree? Mathematicians and poets, we're not so different. We seek patterns, we find anomalies, we revel in the beauty of discovery. While math on paper may show infinite possibilities, isn't it exciting to think of the world as an ever-changing equation, waiting for us to solve? Let's start by counting raindrops next time it pours and see what stories they tell.

CORRESPONDENCE

Eli, yesterday I found 

a house with no doors. 

Not one. Imagine that!

And the oddity is that I went 

around, waiting for a break 

in the bricks, but there was none.

This is the mystery we 

used to imagine, remember?

Now it's autumn, and the leaves are stubborn 

shades of gold, and I find myself 

inside this house without ever entering.

Like that time you lost your keys and we spent 

hours retracing steps? And how sometimes 

the simplest things elude us?

That's what I've been feeling: This is 

how the world surprises us. And earlier, 

as the wallpaper breathed 

beside me, and the familiar hum of 

the old radio played a song 

we used to know, I felt it too. This is it.

Wandering. Finding no boundaries 

where there should be. Remember

that feeling of endless wonder?

But now and then, in the midst 

of these strange moments, when 

I see my reflection in an old

dusty mirror or the gleam 

of a polished table, I feel

this deep-rooted love 

for the world, for the mundane, for 

the footsteps on a wooden floor

 the whisper of the wind

through a door left ajar.

It hits me then: I am here. 

And I recall all we shared.

//

Lia, since we last spoke

while tracing the same

 roads we used to wander, I found 

one without an end. A road 

that kept unfolding, stretching 

further than the horizon.

Those junctions and corners 

we knew by heart? They were gone.

For hours, or what felt

like it, I paced. I hoped

someone might appear, guide

me through this labyrinth. 

But when I halted, the very 

ground shifted, taking me to 

another place, just like our streets:

the same vendors, the same 

city noise, the same notes

of a familiar song. Only

it was different--a silence 

beneath the hum, a stillness 

amidst the rush.

Then, a touch

on my shoulder, and 

guess who? It was me

but not. This version 

had a stillness, a glow.

"You've reached where 

paths have no finish," it whispered.

Here, Lia, people journeyed

without an end in sight. Not lost

but finding. Every step, every curve

was cherished, not for where

it might lead, but for the moment it held.

It was enchanting, but oh, so overwhelming.

As the first signs of dawn painted

the sky, a longing tugged at my heart.

"How do I return?" I asked the other me.

It smiled, a mirror 

of my own, "Keep walking."

And as I moved, with every 

footfall, our city, our home, started 

to weave back around me

familiar and welcoming.

COSMIC SPILL

Patterns, seemingly random

at first glance, hide Euclidean

stories and universal truths. 

Coffee stains--the geometry

of the everyday--constellations

spattered across the coffee table. 

A miniature universe. Its genesis

the spray of liquid particles

tracing their own determined path. 

Their essence goes back to

the very origins of the universe

the singularity from which

all matter sprung forth. The initial 

cosmic spill, the original droplet

splashing out into the void.

Caiti (she/her) is a teacher and emerging poet. She taught and studied writing at the University of Missouri--St. Louis. Caiti writes about issues important to her life from mental health, motherhood, and neurodiversity to education and learning. Caiti has been published online by LitBreak Magazine and The Closed Eye Open. She is a regular contributor to ASDE's Tipping Points Magazine and an editorial assistant for HNDL Mag. Caiti lives with her husband and children in St. Louis, Missouri, and can be found on Instagram @CaitiTalks