Jaclyn Burton

The computer won’t indulge me until I confirm who I am
with a separate, slower machine.

My iPhone 8 is wilting, but I wave it outside,
beg it to vouch for me

amongst the trees whose flowers fell
with Springtime snow; Santa Susana’s peaks

carpeted by the byproduct of buying products,
the ground polluted by a miracle.

I minimize my search for the best hyaluronic acid face serums
to project an agenda DeSantis would damn

to students who view vaping as a healthy alternative,
and 9/11 as overhyped

because everyday there is the certainty of loss,
grief simmering in the air like static they’ve never seen.