I guess it’s too late to live on the farm. Let it fall away

It’s not too late.

The pain that I feel when you leave me brings me to the foot of a womb where I
confront my own failure. To love myself to know god to unknow. Our stupefaction
hardens so that it may be shattered.

Through you I have touched the cortex of the universal intention
the serous fluid between organs a holy skin
every cell in your body I have loved and collected as dust
in the grooves of my seclusion

As we crawl back into uterine caress of the manifested chase

As we worm our way against grainier gradation of shadow

Applying the vaults of the sensible apoplepsis

Sense the impulsive resistance

To ultimate bliss in a snake’s mouth

When you were just a tiny worm-nugget in the tongue of your mum’s forked soul

When I masturbate to get to the center of god’s wound

When I touch your soul’s supply, letters combine

When a letter is pierced, water flows out of instant

When I lie down in the cleavage of sleepdeath


So I guess this is the hardened capsule of jump. I leap into ignorance

To find fire

To command love


By day, Feng Sun Chen works at a nursing home in Minneapolis, by night she creates biting poetry such as her latest collection, The 8th House (Black Ocean 2015). She is also the author of the book of poetry Butcher’s Tree (Black Ocean 2011) and the chapbooks Ugly Fish (Radioactive Moat 2011), Arcane Carnal Knowledge (Mortal Steaks 2012), and blud (Spork Press 2011). She has an MFA from the University of Minnesota and sometimes writes about potatoes and art for Montevidayo. For more information on Chen, visit her blog.