This poem is still available on the magazine’s website.

Answers when prompted, agrees to the agreed
upon conclusions, makes time for small talk,
aftercare, makes eye contact when it fucks you.
Optional chrome plating only shows when

the human skin wears down & your mom
will say how its a pity you couldn’t just settle
down with a normal girl, pretty & soft,
with curves like the hills where you were

raised. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a manicured
hand to wrap around your cock on those days
when her headaches strike? So much so that maybe
you’ve painted your nails a few times, experimented

with hues that look like they were swatched during
a summer storm in hopes of pulling lightning from
the sky. Mother, I’ve spent the best of my time talking
to myself, my god. & it can pass the bar, the SATs –

it can repeat & recite & repeat & recite. & you
should hear it say the names of the dread things
that dwell inside me – adenine thymine cytosine
guanine, my god, the way

she answers
at my prompt.

I have a tendency to read annoying takes &/or articles about AI, only to turn around & write some smarmy poem. This is one of them.

Specifically, this poem was reacting to someone tweeting about an article that boasted that AI can pass exams — like the bar. The tweet thread weaved in & out of ridiculousness, switching between insinuations that AI could potentially replace more traditionally highly skilled jobs & arguing for AI rights that we currently don’t even allow whole groups of human beings.