ISSUE 5 · FALL 2010
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.
Feng Sun Chen, who is also responsible for this issue's back cover art, is an MFA candidate at the University of Minnesota. Her website is www.fengsunchen.com.