born digital

When a story enters the world 
having never known the shock 
of being abducted from a shelf, 
nor the stroking of fingers 
over its cover, nor the cracking 
of its spine, nor the dogearing
of its pages (which I imagine 
must feel like being worked over 
by an impassioned and experienced 
masseur, muscles sliding over bone, 
skin creasing in novel and irrevocable 
ways, painful but for the knowledge 
that you’ll emerge softened, 
more supple and better prepared 
to be loved by the world) archivists say 
it is “born digital.”

And while I have never experienced 
the blossoming relief 
of file decompression, 
nor the glee of near-lightspeed travel 
across transatlantic fiber optic cables, 
nor the jubilation of being reverted
to an earlier version of myself, nor
the entropic terror of bit rot (which I imagine 
must feel like forgetting: the slow ablation 
of life’s ridges and grooves, empty 
but for the certainty that what was lost 
was irreplaceable), I am grateful 
for mine and all other bodies, 
however melancholic, 
however prone we are to mistaking 
the menu for the meal.