They could see the reptilian shift in my eye
when I looked at her
in this place of women.
I did want her to die, at least
before I did.
Dilated pupils of depressed triggers.
It was for the best, he said.
Darling, I know what is best.
Men line up
like packets of snail eggs.
I luxuriate, ashened
by the dance I saw through the slit
in the door. Liberating explosion.
The vision rises, turns inside out.
I throw everything in the hamper,
Is it spring outside? It might be.
What is soul? Insectal
beast in its molt.
Spray of pericardial
confetti. It is my hate
and swells like bulbs before rain
and opens its million tiny fingers to the sun
who has its face.
Feng Sun Chen is an MFA candidate at the University of Minnesota. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in A capella Zoo, DIAGRAM, Moon Milk Review, nthposition, PANK, Pop Serial, Radioactive Moat, So and So Magazine, Strange Machine, White Whale Review, and Word Riot, among others.