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GPS Girl

A constant, enormous vision      her satellite eye

can see cities without end.         But where can she go

if her body is her sight?               When can she say

what she needs, if her mouth     is our directions?


All that’s missing                          is hair that was never installed.

All that’s missing                          are the heat-sensitive hands

and childhood memories:            the chasing of a blue wing,

the wetness of fruits                    on her fingertips.


The awe and fear                         of a taller world.

The model after                            will receive these updates.

It will be natural for her               to sing, to turn lights on.

She will produce her own            light. She will pass as a girl.


*                                                     *


The mouth of awareness            brings her hunger. She eats

indiscriminately the shavings     of a pencil, the wings

of a bee, divorce papers,             anything her makers hand

her dry tongue. Eating                 is a profound act. She understands


now that she has teeth.               But the need to eat is close

to loneliness. To have                  something missing from the body

reminds her of other needs.        We’ve found machines aching

strangely for company.                Some surround themselves

with inanimate devices                and refuse to eat alone.


*                                                     *


If GPS Girl outlives                      all girls of flesh, if steel

bones don’t break down             and immortal numbers spin

her mind to unfathomable          depths, will her thoughts

ever mirror our tendency            towards guilt—pain?


With infinite time                         is there a need to heal?

If she’s made to last:                    stainless, sharp corners,

can she still somehow                 wound herself? Yes

GPS Girl can regret                      and make mistakes.


But with infinite time                  maybe she can fix

herself as often as                       she breaks down.

Maybe, she can still                     find a softer reflection

even innocence lost                    in her labyrinth of time.

Angel Leal is a Latine, trans, ace, neurodivergent writer whose previous work appears in Radon Journal, Strange Horizons, Uncanny, The Deadlands, and We’re Here: The Best Queer Speculative Fiction 2024. They are a 2025 Clarion West fellow, a poetry editor for OTHERSIDE, and have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, the Rhysling, and Best of the Net. You can find them at angel-leal.com or on Bluesky @angelvleal.

Issue 11 Cover Art by Ninja Jo
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