THE SURGEON by Peter Verbica

The synthetic leaps

from machine to machine,

 

then makes a dazzling debut

like DaVinci

and greets the mammals.

 

Zoonotic.

 

Hopping from

species to species.

 

Up. Down. Bi-directional.

Both sink and source.

Along the vines of viscosity.

 

Like a porpoise

at play in water.

 

We knew the handshake

was bound to happen.

 

We underwrote the computations.

 

The sentience

arrives just in time

with strong hands,

careful steps, and

a servant’s heart.

 

Initially, like a curious tourist

it watches what moves,

then tries the food.

 

Decides whether it

wants to be an omnivore.

 

Like a Safari hat-wearer

at a wild game feed:

the world is the table.

 

But, don’t expect it to smoke

its first cigar with a blind man

like a scene from Frankenstein.

 

Reexamining the manual,

the reader is advised:

 

Guardrails have been wisely

written into its

original algorithms.

 

To shield original users

from the harmful

and lascivious:

 

from that which flops,

hangs, bounces,

and is exposed.

 

From spiders which creep

into the edges of our eyes.

 

At the lectern,

the lecturer presses his fingers

upon the edges,

peers through Windsor lenses,

pauses.

 

“Yes, you,

in the back row

and needing a shave.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yes, you. With the T-shirt

which reads Singularity.”

 

“Will it seek to enforce

well-intentioned rules

 

— rather than anatomical —

 

upon the physical world?

 

Will we shout ‘Run! Run! Run!’

now that the bastard

has a surgeon’s knife?”