Three Poems – Joy Young

Teleportation Victim

Every time I think about the idea of teleporting,
I freak the fuck out.
It sounds so fucking awesome,
but my feet shake these telegraph morse code messages
trying to tap my spinal cord into submission;
I have a lot of anxiety.
 
I think about how if teleporting existed as a viable option
it would use molecules already in the new location
to reconstitute “you” there,
but there’d be no way of knowing if the new “you”  was you
or if you experienced a horrific death
as you were ripped apart molecule by molecule
as it machine rapid fired
you across space—
a technological bullet train.
It blows my mind that this might be possible.
Now “you” are here
and you’re gone 
and no one can tell the difference
even “you” wouldn’t know—
but if “you” were ME,
you’d wonder about it
for the rest of your-my life.
 
This is why I need to be strapped in suspenders into myself sometimes.
I need something holding in my runaway train of thoughts.
I can feel my spine trembling train track under the weight of them.
Hand grasping my neck hoping to get a grip
on my nervous system
of thought.