W.A.P.

Thrashing through bed linens,
I battle to shield my ears
from wailing waves of woe.
“SIRI! STOP 'DIANA’S ALARM!'” 
I scream, beg.

“You want me to ‘Stop Diana’s Alarm?’”
Siri clarifies, an edge 
of condescension 
cresting her consonants.

“YES!” 
I beg, burying my head.

“Got it!” She replies, 
before falling silent 
without further action.

The unwelcome sirens 
permeate my skull.
UGhhhhh!!!
I groan.

“Alarm OFF! 
“Siri, turn the alarm
on 'Diana’s phone' 
“OFF!!!”
I slice my syllables
through the air, wielding a verbal stiletto
(the Italian dagger, not Runway kind)
to penetrate the deep chasm of
human-to-artificial intelligence.

“‘Turn off the alarm on Diana’s iPhone?’”
She parrots.
“Got it!” 
She cheers herself on.

An unseen hand pulls
an aural plug from its socket;
the room empties
of concussive throbs.
The pulsing crescendo 
disappears, as if magic.

As if 
all I had to do, 
was ask. 
Thrice.

Now she's gaslighting me.
Siri, my betrayer, 
is not a Woman's Woman.

Mgphhh! I scream, 
my anger lightly muffled
in the wrinkles of warm pillow 
into which I've burrowed my face.

The floor pulls me;
Gravity is still ‘on’ today.
 
My face contorts like
a savannah lionness;
I grimace and yawn
and summon life into my lungs.

Time to join the greater world:
“Hey Siri, play ‘W-A-M-U radio,’” 
I request, forcing a slight smile, plastered
and a veil of patience. 
My honeyed voice is crystalline at its core.

“On it!” 
Siri responds, 
her pseudo voice 
set to frienmesis mode.

Siri, undaunted, declares:
“Playing ‘W.A.P featuring Megan Thee Stallion by Cardi B.’” 
It’s official; 
she’s cackling up at me 
from AI Hell.

My bedroom, 
brilliant with Eastern rays,
now swarms 
with the dulcet chant of 
a morning mantra manifested 
by bits and bytes, 
just for me:

🎶THERE’S WHORES IN THIS HOUSE!
THERE’S SOME WHORES IN THIS HOUSE!
THERE’s SOME WHORES IN THIS HOUSE! 
(Hol’ up!)🎶

My jaw aches 
from sudden displacement
as my mouth drops open in shock.
The AI-dacity.

🎶I SAID CERTIFIED FREAK! 
SEVEN DAYS A WEEK!
WET AND GUSHY, 
MAKE THAT PULL-OUT GAME WEAK
WOO! 
AH!!!🎶

Rolling my eyes, 
admitting defeat,
I add in a little twerk 
to my zombie stumble 
out of the sheets.

If I'm barred from beaming the news, 
I guess I’ll dance with the divas.

Message received, Siri.
“‘Got it!’” I shout.