Eyes of an Angel
by Shawntaye M. Scott
Chewy, intense eyes smell me
brisk milky, silky threads
float on through the moon
swimming its gooey fury
lowering vapors on my blood.
My aimless anxiety freezes
as your calculated kindred steps
glide and permeate my psyche.
your dust evaporating my pants
whisking me as wistful leaves.
A shapeshifter on four paws
you engulfed me as a presage
a benediction of visceral silence
I crumble my internal whirlpool
inking onward universally.
the countdown of seven nights
translated by PLS
seven nights ascend, flame towards flame
they meet each other in a narrow alley
like the residual traces when the tides are gone
a sealed letter, pallid in the morning mist.
six hearts whisper, the seventh has stopped
they knock on the wooden door, which is already open
wind sweeps through the hall, echoes swirl in the empty corridor
fingertips fumble in the ashes, searching for unwritten words
five roses wither, four lamps blink
night pours out spring water, washes the forgotten streets
three shadows float on the window, two echoes glide across the wall
but the first step, still lingers at the edge of night
hillslope
translated by PLS
above your head, the flames of wings soar
stirring the air. then a hot rush
through your heart
up along the vegetation
cultivated by the settlers
my hands are smaller than garden gloves
to share with a few ducks, the clarity of the pond
to sit down, so the winter no longer depresses
Witness II
by C.Z. Liu
A black umbrella fell
against the tides of Manhattan
upside down
It wouldn’t be so bad
to lay here
in the home of millions
Heimat of none.
And so the ghosts at the cemetery
walked around town
asking the typical when
why and what
But you hid your confusion
for you’ve seen the map: A dot
A black umbrella fell
Where
X marked the spot.
smog
translated by PLS
wind hurries from the end of winter
stops on the seventh day—
rust swarms the pendulum
drowsiness is the last testimony of the year
fields crumble in the mist
skeletons of a bridge sink to the ground
snores bend the grasses
the abodes of villagers
disperse slowly
for they’re emptied of their content
dust is the sole anchor
mountains, a slice of peeled sky
wind speechless among the cracks
we cross the Qing river
our shadows wrestling against the water
under the sun creased into a ladder
each step is a measurement of the mist
night of echoes
translated by PLS
you will not find your name between my lips
for it was permeated by salt yesterday
abandoned by shadows,
in the dialogue behind the window.
you will not encounter a stranger at your doorstep
drops of rain hang in the air, like exploded bell sounds
time, standing beneath a street lamp
fiddling with the remnant notes of the evening.
you will not see a tear in the eye
the well has dried, stones are still silent
the footsteps that traverse the night
are swallowed by echoes, bit by bit
sappy eyes
this time last year by this door*
translated by PLS
it must be the climate, that breeds
the sappy view, allowing many a night
to infiltrate each other, borders blurred
the scent of bitter bamboo shoots strip the old year, this forest
endows time to another person with imagined silence
upon the tender green light, believing in the truth of dew
over treetops the desire of fruits reemerges, so much like
the subconsciousness that brims and cramps. right now
i am no isolated emptiness, but the secret
countless blooming periods glimpsed across the twigs
*from a poem written by Cui Hu, a Chinese poet of the Tang dynasty.
cost
translated by PLS
the emerald air billows
outside wet confusions.
the participation of wind in a scene,
ends a childhood without the roars of an engine.
the creator and the created are both gone now.
what else is left to convulse.
we no longer medicate ourselves
with anything related to our names.
in the never-ending chasm behind us
the shadows of death yet to be collected
are still soaked by the water.
before the train has to take off
the sound from uprooting a foxtail
has become a swelling whistle inside you.
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