Tag Archives: Spencer Chang

Letter to Past Self

the tongue is wrapped in gold we shed a little every time we speak. trust me, these words are not trapped in the heart, they flow through the hands the bones the mouth. do not hide in your mother’s shadow, … Continue reading

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Tree of Jade

listen my child, do you hear the jade glistening inside, at the crux of your heart, I’ve placed it there for you. a sunken eye hardened from the bottom of the ocean. I’ve woven you a silk robe to wrap … Continue reading

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The Children First Learn to Drown

From 1887 up to the 1970s, thousands of Native American children were forcibly taken from their families and sent to boarding schools as a part of the government’s assimilation efforts. at camp, the children first learn to drown in their … Continue reading

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Revolutions That Don’t Translate

again I will mistake the grip of my hands for a stranger’s, undressing before the mirror as if saying this is all, my reflection seems almost too small to be true. I will only see my shadow when it’s too … Continue reading

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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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