What the Algorithm Knows

Seven days of the same pressure, left

side, just behind the eye. Two in the morning,

the dark room. No lamp. I kept

the screen close. Just a warning

I told myself I wasn't taking—

first result said tension, stress.

I scrolled. The second, breaking

toward a different kind of yes,

had a list. I read it whole,

each lettered symptom, clinical,

to the bottom. In the glass, my soul

or face—some residual

self, reflected in the window, laid

over the results. Both visible.

Me and the list. A cab's cascade

of light across the sill.

I closed the tabs. The headache was

the same headache. Except it had

a word in it now. Because

I'd given it one. The bad

math of 2am. I pressed

my palm above the eye.

Lay back. The ceiling. The rest

of the dark. The word I'd pried

loose from the list

is in the headache still.