Sampurna Chattarji: ‘The oracle is not a machine’

Spoons the oracles of eating, objects that intuit hunger from the taste
of the tongue against their steel mouths. Hung from the ceiling
of a specific appetite for impossibles they are the green reflection
of a deserted bistro where only the machines hum their lonely song:
come back, hands, sweat, human agency, open us, close us, set us
in your service, desert us, count on us to keep singing to the green
melon on the counter, warming it with our intelligent voices
while we wait for the long afternoon to ripen.

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