Where the Poems Are
by E.C. Gannon
“Where the Poems Are” is my response to AI-generated poetry and where, I think, its deficiencies lie.
The machines do not know sadness.
They do not sit in parks in November, pulling their flannel tighter against the wind, waiting for a
conversation, a couple on rollerskates, or a catastrophe.
They do not take showers so hot their skin reddens, their vision crackles, and they do not keep
the water running so long that a roommate who is really a stranger knocks on the door to
make sure they’re still conscious.
They do not listen to the beeping of a Walmart self-checkout at midnight with a handful of
antihistamines and a tightening throat.
They do not sip good whiskey. They do not pump gas before sunrise.
They do not hold hands with people without faces and dance in widening circles until the DJ cuts
the music and turns on the lights.
They do not fall in love against their better judgment.
They do not drive cross country, do not wait for the coffee pot while looking
into the haze of dawn.
They do not know how a certain pair of hands feel touching their inner thighs, holding back their
hair, or slapping them once across the face, and they do not later watch those hands
caress someone else’s body.
They do not sing. They don’t know that joy.
They do not feel the urge to reinvent themselves or to disappear.
They have never had to stop themselves from smiling while returning a cart at the grocery store.
