H E R M E N E U T I C C H A O S J O U R N A L
She rings of arachnophobia
and pours from the insides
of her wrists. Stiff with crowds.
Smells like a phobia.
We’re narrators that count
from two to the endpoints
of our income taxes. We speak
the language of cyclones and
gut the charlatans. December and
I met a girl who thought she was
an arctangent, ran in circles
and coded the lines into smoke
alarms. Wiped the oils of her
hands from the camera lens.
January and the flies were gone,
pig fat and heavy buckets
toting the rest of the congestion
to traffic lights on 6th and 52nd.
We call the families to bring
the music since we don’t see
cyclones anymore. February plots
jump discontinuities on the rest
of the paper plane, we gorge our
pockets with plane tickets,
carry the holograms of our
bodies back through the rusted
shavings of Chicago, watch
the lampposts stagger on.
Sabrina Chen is a student who has been entranced by the symmetry of both Blake’s tiger and superstring theory since the age of eleven. Her poetry has been recognized by Hollins University and has recently appeared in Poetry Quarterly, The Winter Tangerine Review, and Society of Classical Poets. Intending to pursue a career merging the sciences and the humanities, she writes while sketching colliderscopes and believes the only constant is change.
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