​​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.