Emily Oliver



Our girlhood was spaced apart
by layoffs. A man thought he died
and long patio chairs
returned to the basement.
I goodbyed the foreclosed stoop.

By staging the correct loop of deeds
he, electrically, was revived. I knew
my absolute self in the sliding
glass, Mary in a cradle beside. In words
I made the future. I could have lied.




My system is different
than his systems.

He flatters the closed
circuit, what falls

feeds roots, eights among his
lovely electrical shapes.

My wakelight is start, stop,
a moon circle fought

in a horseshoe's trace.
It is not a biological lacing;

I was built by the world
to open.











On "Seven Year Circuit A": The brain is a strange archive. Maybe especially in our current technological moment, when so much is surveilled, recorded, and reproducible. Memory can become a type of self-surveillance: cataloged reels that can be rewound and watched over for clues.

On"But Is This Work Computational?": A contributing origin: over Skype, three men and a dog interviewed me for a digital humanities gig. I could only see the dog's ears but his man was unimpressed.