Sonnet: CRISPR Critters We Call Love
by John Kendall Hawkins
Gene Tyranny was my favorite singer,
though she never sang a note, but what tats
she wore up and down the alluring realm
of her inner thighs, meant to overwhelm
resistance to her vibe: black cats, white rats,
magic in the lab, my dancing finger.
If I needed to fall in love again,
I could do worse than turn out CRISPR toons,
calibrated to enhance my desires
for hallucinogenic Eros fires --
hot genius girls with hips like rounded spoons
to stir my coffee, keep me high on zen.
Soon we'll be pulling ribs from new Adams,
choosing the I color from mad madams.