Category Archives: Poetry

Lost in Translation (Hunger)

ink is flooding everywhere from head to chest. I lie quiet in these ship hands. stomach clawing like goosebumps ready to tear open. maybe this is a good thing, like the flock’s seasonal migration south from winter-starved land, like the … Continue reading

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Instead Let Us Dream

instead, let us pray for good sleep. imagine the tongue as a needle, thin enough to pass through the skin, we lay our heads back disturbing not even the dust, the stars dancing chaotically around us. let this be the … Continue reading

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Concerning History

Spencer Chang is a writer from Taipei, Taiwan. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Rising Phoenix Review, Rabbit, Blue Marble Review, The Daphne Review, and elsewhere.

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Body Map

Spencer Chang is a writer from Taipei, Taiwan. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Rising Phoenix Review, Rabbit, Blue Marble Review, The Daphne Review, and elsewhere.

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Aftermath

still, we are learning             to play the tender chords of our veins. last night, we woke                         to find our names replaced by the names of flowers             under napalm skies, when the others have already begun                         plucking the ricochets of dawn … Continue reading

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flood

on this walk, i wait for the blue evening to thumb itself into my bony hips like an old lover. in the dark and ripped open on the slush-snow, a crushed rabbit regards me. rounded like the beat-blink of a … Continue reading

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daughter/tiger/tauter/tighter

baba cried the night we had to leave. he is a good man, nearly seven feet tall but wears the air above him like he is asking for forgiveness. the night before we slip            out of this country, he tells me … Continue reading

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does the moon still exist if no one is looking?

i. not this body, no. not this thin un-shape of a child folded up like a switchblade, so close against the crest of my neck. not these hairs standing up on your skin, made upright by the charge between the … Continue reading

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temporary abode

wood-turned bannisters, stained ebony, each step, a creak and groan; ash on one, crumbs and cockroach on another, this place has been left to ruin. a once-lively bakery stacked with dusty chairs, a worn sign advertises vegetable roti. the stairs … Continue reading

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Lockdown Acoustics

Mine was a world of constant noise. The fan in my room, the TV in my kitchen, music in the car. I could stare at the ceiling for hours and watch as the fan rotates, its motion easing with my … Continue reading

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coasters

I asked my dad if he and mom would be             okay if I never sent money to them after I left the nest,             wings wobbling and change spilling, pennies clattering into the drains and             singing in their copper glory down … Continue reading

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Mr. Singh’s Funeral

The morning Mr. Singh died, his faulty garbage disposal spit up a shard of pomegranate, and a flurry of red seeds like carnelians skipped across the limestone floor. He clasped his hands in delight and marveled at how beauty lurks … Continue reading

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Flying

It was a few years back when this happened, when a friend shared a photo of his daughter in the pilot’s seat of a small plane. She looked grown and child-like at the same time, sweet, awkward, smiling, crowded in … Continue reading

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Beast

Strange portal, this phone in my hand. I’m suddenly watching a horse in labor, terror in her eyes, gray-haired farmer behind her, still-bagged hooves in his hands. His wife holds the mare’s head, son stands by waiting to be told … Continue reading

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Epithalamium

My hands are broken pretzels so I can’t hold you the right way. Your skin squid-like, mine has been touched too many times. Love me like we’re in a young adult novel. I hoard delight, brunettes, gazelles, excess, Bud Light, … Continue reading

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Cleansing

it is sometimes what we hope: a woman under a waterfall in a shampoo commercial but sometimes it is a single hair clinging to a wall as water strikes for fear of the drain Based in Modesto, California, Matthew Andrews … Continue reading

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Sperrmüll

A friend told me Here in Germany When we want to get rid of old things We leave them outside It doesn’t matter how big or small the pile is Stacks of books Tolstoy, Tolkien, G. R. R. Martin Heirlooms, … Continue reading

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Climate and Tide

Sonnets Break on Six Shores Surefoot I navigate through landscapes I know so well I don’t need to dream them to rehydrate my days. Glasgow Currents Unseen from the high ground of the Necropolis where city founders gather the river … Continue reading

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Hegira

divide and i may fly: into a prismatic crack-cleft i nose dove and into me the pink pushed like weather falling heavy the internal gloaming of you my wrists are blushing as i continue singing inside the spirit of fibromuscular … Continue reading

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Biko Hani Mahola Malema Daddy (A Poem in Experimental Haiku)

Social media – flux. Lunch. History wilderness. Broken hinges. Spice. Post-apartheid child underfoot – There is footstomping-traffic in my house. Toy guns. Cowboy hats. I am the June guest – Greedy for ritual. Sonnets. Winter possession. Orlando’s river – Habits … Continue reading

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The Alcoholic in Recovery

I may be cynical, getting older, more set in my ways And I may not have the tongue of an angel, or much love for my fellow man My recovery begins with slowly peeling back the layers Of pain that … Continue reading

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Frieda (A Series of Haiku)

Ted Hughes Weave your poetry – shamanic-wisdom And not by accident it will prosper long-after-you-are-dead. For-all-the-raw-cutting-edge-of-the-world-to-see. Assia Wevill She slipped – she didn’t fall-like-a-body-or-wreck Could have been a striking pageant-beauty-queen-in-a-magazine. An anonymous-connection-with-men. Bewitched them. Sylvia Plath Flame. Troubled. Gossamer-hair. Flawed-and-most-powerful. … Continue reading

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The Lonely Mind (A Series of Experimental Poems)

Emptiness A drowning visitor in the system. Virginia Woolf her forehead shiny with perspiration. The lake pours itself into her body. Children who are Poets They play with lobsters in hand. For them seawater doesn’t come with a map – … Continue reading

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The Arrival of the Paper Tiger Empress

My wild ‘Sargasso’ sea Is a heaven That loves only me And the accomplished. Saboteurs’ pillow talk Like Assia Wevill’s and Jean Rhys’s Plant their airs-and-graces Inches from it. This is their playground. Gills do not matter. The possibilities of … Continue reading

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Patrice Lumumba

Uncomplaining boy-child Did you ever kneel beside Your bed at night with Dreams of the future, halo, Inside your head, goals, grief blossoming-like-waves To pray towards an-African-revolution Flowing in your veins All the great unanswered questions-of-your-country Bright star found-in-a-water’s-lake Your … Continue reading

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