An Atomical Play

by Feng

Thousands share his name.
Brown eyes, two out of sixteen billion.
Brown hair, ten thousand out of trillions. Pink lips, pink tongue;
His brain is pink, probably, as is his skin sometimes, especially in the heat.
His hair expands in the humidity. In the spring anxieties pop up in the field
of him like Birds of Paradise.
He is slightly bow-legged but some find it endearing—
the way he walks, the way his ass sticks out a little.
He has very long lashes, like a camel. They rhyme out like bells.
I am tested. I am sent through
rooms filled to the beams
with male parts. A hall of tongues,
a corridor of hands and banquet hall of legs
lids and lips and some with just the scalp.
My ears ring silver. There is no time. Where is he?
The minotaur with the scalpel waves
it around like a sparkler.
Go ahead, he says, reconstruct him.
I see that he is the god of undoing.
He can outdo even himself.
I wake up later and it is muggy outside
and I’ve already forgotten what it was
like in the winter
when I could still see my breath and remember how
the world enters me that way. The bells in the winter
rang truer. What can I say? His name?
A name? Name of a muscle?
Can’t say it. Can’t kill it.
Can I make it shiny and new? Who would
buy it? Do I buy it?
I have come up with a solution. Strike
a deal with the warden.
Burn up the futurist museums.
The paintings will come to life. When
everybody, appendages
stuck geometrically in brave new places,
is in pieces, then I will understand him,
myself in pieces.
Rip everyone apart.
It’s all the same in there, forests of elastic
slipperiness and a few bone bells.
When I see the mosaic
of red on the train track I think of
the rooms, the name.
I say to myself this is what I want to marry.
Rip everyone apart. Rip everything.


feng chen


image by beksinski