ISSUE 5 · FALL 2010




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Copyright © 2010

Feng Sun Chen





Eclipse

FENG SUN CHEN



He liked it better when the moon was not photographed. Now he had lost

his father. It seemed that each distant thing,

even the orbs that have long fizzled out

could be killed a second time, through a concavity. Bring it closer, ever closer

and it shrinks and disappears.


Now he could turn into anything, anything to the full, except a man or a woman

because he could not hide his tail.

On the day he tried to cut his tail off, the moon blotted out the sun,

there was the struggle

to describe the sliding out of that moment. Finally the sky had opened

and there were black fibers on the other side. The female entirety, filled with

black and rimmed with renegade light. Behind the tear was sleep.


The ligaments were the hardest to cut, surprisingly

tougher than bone. Warmth left him and pale entered.

He held it in his hand. What had he hoped for? He chose this.

He chose for his blood

to run, to fall through a gliding eye, a black pupil

that would not stop gazing

in a moment that stilled, axed itself, turned backward

into the mind like a rolled eye.