by Feng

I used to look in those holes in his head. Thought I lost my keys in there.

My razors. Dignity. And the remote.  I have to talk about it like
shopping for delicates. Bracketed. Parenthesized by the harmless.

I can open letters with keys. I can gouge out eyes.
Tear trachea with razors. I can do all that.
I can do all that to him. I could have.

I wrote him a letter asking if his eyeballs hurt sometimes because of me.
When the lights turn off and darkness pries his eyelids open with dental tools,
What does he do. Do he speak with his eyes, for example?
And if someone is in the room with him,
what does he say to them with his fleshy, colorless hands?
Also, whether he remembered the beach.

I go to the beach.
I dig in with a plastic shovel the color of wet sand the color of his eyes
plucked from the pale and stitched to mine.


feng chen


image by Beksinski