I mistake a poet for a poem. I ache for the stars
and they shower asbestos upon my arms.
Inside, a ghost-shaped fist unclasps
against a pronoun. To walk asleep
and be felt only as fingertips. A brackish instance
in every tooth or sealed doorway.
Who are we without everything unproven?
Even the unnamed is named,
nothing lost on me. Evening clockwises
to the belly, day sighs the lack thereof.
Our sky is a bowl of foam and
we are the light. No
traces of old. I am only sure being
a painting: the spider pinprick
of a gravel bead and the most quiet heat.
This expanding eclipse lisps
upwards, perhaps perforating the curve
and leaking heaven down to earth.
A poet unwinds beneath
as a fist-shaped ghost.
Ava Chen is a student poet residing in Massachusetts. Her work has been recognized by Smith College and the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and appears or is forthcoming in Scapegoat Review, Ghost City Review, and Rising Phoenix Review, among others. Her debut chapbook, Snow Syndrome, is forthcoming with dancing girl press.
Issue 20 • Next: Mary Simmons