Sascha Cohen

Here I am, boys—revived,
back from the brink, resuscitated
and revitalized. My blonde hair, buoyant.
My new breasts, pneumatic.

You wouldn’t know it
but something survived in the Titan
submersible of my body. Now I’m
cyborg acrylic and silicone. Now I’m

tubes and metal and reborn.
But they made me the wrong kind
of robot. Drop-shipped me
into the plastic wasteland

of worthless language. Know I’ll die
in this dustbin. Know I’ll rust
like tin. You can’t bring
anything with you here:

your brain, your heart, your body.
Just look at that horizon—
the tornado twists like a mantis
on hot concrete. The data center

sizzles, lands on someone’s sister.
Her pretty legs curl up from underneath.

Here, a scarecrow with twelve fingers.
Here, a farm girl with no face.

Bio: Sascha Cohen is a writer from Los Angeles. Her poems have been nominated for the Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.

Roanoke Review