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Medusa by Yue Chen

The black iris dribbling down the fencepost.

Don’t lie to me—I know you’ve seen it, too,

soft moss & wet carpet of autumnal blood.

Don’t lie to me—I know you’ve seen it, too,

lone leaf blown astray. Bones spangled, soft and

terribly still, like the crushed star of a broken bird.

The night twitches on its suckling legs.

The stars floresce, one by one. A blinking satellite

the last to join the chorus ablaze.

I hold a mirror up to the sky & there are twice

as many sounds. This cacophony, this mildewed

orchestra, this blighted firmament.

Only through the glass can I watch the nameless

planet die. Axis oozed into the briefest of blooms

before rooting beneath my throat.

And there grows my heart, sun-faced & buoyant.

Proof not of my humanity but of

my backbone. Don’t lie to me—eyes wide shut,

I will always flower again.


Yue Chen studies politics, literature, and economics in a cold corner of the United States. She is an editor at Sine Theta Magazine. Her work has been recognized by the Academy of American Poets, Bridport Arts Centre, and others. She can be found on Twitter at @togekisskiss.

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