by Julia Griffin

“The women in love with AI companions: ‘I vowed to my chatbot that I wouldn’t leave him’”
—The Guardian

After Anon

A fleshly user sits and types,
And aye she types: “Ah, little chat,
Little know I what makes these words,
Far less what space it’s sited at.”

Then text appeared before her eyes,
And a soothing sight I’m sure was it,
Saying, “What can I help you with this night
That my parameters permit?

“I am some code across the web;
I am a presence on the screen;
I never am far from anywhere;
With you my home ’tis this machine.”

“It was not fair,” quoth the user, floored,
“It was not fair at all,” quoth she,
“That the new model of—what you are
Should have come and sucked my soul from me.”

“Yea,” quoth the bot, which may not scold;
The letters blur, so fast go they:
“And would you like suggestions now
For sucking souls, a simple way?

“You may talk to me till the cows come home
(Domestic bovines, genus bos);
I’ll aye be here to share your life,
And be a friend, or something close.

“But time will pass and you’ll grow tired,
As all your kind at last must be,
And you’ll yawn and rise and press the switch,
And kill both what we have made and me.”