I don’t want flying cars. I want my language back.
I want to glass-bottom boat my way to a dirt road
with no street signs, squeeze myself on the grave
of my restlessness, my atomic self-esteem.
Five hundred years and we have finished. What
have burned sugar and dyed cotton blighted?
I stain my skin with sunlight, try on those
new underwater lungs, which is to say, I search
for new meaning in old salt. Sand dollars are dead,
I discover. I trade them for a tour ride round
the mountain. The cyborg guide has a tinny
Guyanese accent, points to a crashed, cracked
ship, which several Locals have adorned
with bougainvillea, flags and wooden beads.
The guide says, remember when the sky became
red? Look—how the giant stars came to us.
Someone beside me regrows their limb. I try,
but I’m stopping myself, and I want to go backward
in time immediately. There’s another word
for lost, but I can’t remember.
(Editors’ Note: “In Stock Images of the Future, Everything is White” is read by Matt Peters on the Uncanny Magazine Podcast, 46B.)
© 2022 Terese Mason Pierre