I arrive in the night, looking
for a container
in which to place my things.
A gas tanker fills up next door
and I think
there are no quiet places anymore.
Sleep is a ground level
with barred windows
to an inner courtyard.
Dreams are a pack of wolves.
I’ve been trying hard
not to clench my jaws
but when I wake up,
I know nothing
and my teeth hurt.
The shower is cold
so I don’t take it.
The mirror is lined in light.
I walk around alive
and bleeding.
Forget the market,
let women dress me.
Then when I am in the garden
thankful and alone,
I sit at an altar
of rose quartz, poinsettia,
and a single flame.
Cool water runs beneath
a lemon tree.
In the koi pond
the koi stay still.
in which to place my things.
A gas tanker fills up next door
and I think
there are no quiet places anymore.
Sleep is a ground level
with barred windows
to an inner courtyard.
Dreams are a pack of wolves.
I’ve been trying hard
not to clench my jaws
but when I wake up,
I know nothing
and my teeth hurt.
The shower is cold
so I don’t take it.
The mirror is lined in light.
I walk around alive
and bleeding.
Forget the market,
let women dress me.
Then when I am in the garden
thankful and alone,
I sit at an altar
of rose quartz, poinsettia,
and a single flame.
Cool water runs beneath
a lemon tree.
In the koi pond
the koi stay still.
Kirsten Shu-ying Chen is the author of Light Waves (Terrapin Books). A MacDowell fellow, Chen has been a finalist for the Autumn House Press Chapbook Prize, and a semi-finalist for Tomaz Salamun Chapbook Prize by Factory Hollow Press, among others. Her work has twice received Pushcart and best-of-the-net nominations and has been published or is forthcoming in Bear Review, PANK, Inquisitive Eater, Hanging Loose, NoDear and elsewhere. She lives in New York.www.kirstenshuyingchen.com
Beaver Magazine 