Alex Chand

Alex Chand

the baby

In the beginning there is nothing, or
God, and a birth canal on VHS
tape. Fast forward to the telephone cord

being clipped. Now the baby’s wireless,
linked to the cloud, complete with ringtones:
in the beginning, the default is scream, or

a bell too anal and whiny unless
it’s 2007 and a pink Motorola flip phone
from God. Then, c. the birth of iTunes,

cleaved in TrueTone from a cloud of thunder,
heavy metal; lightning and archangels.
In the beginning, is there nothing, or

is the baby already omniscient?—
knows its heart will be reprogrammed after
God, Steve Jobs, or Bill Gates births (proof on VHS)

a reboot of the software, discarded
by some AI network who claims to care
about the beginning—when nothing, or
God, exits through a birth canal, leaves it to us?

Alex Chand lives in Atlanta. You can find her poems in The Cincinnati Review, The Offing, and elsewhere.