Poetry by Rachel Chen

                        Chiara Cremaschi CC



Sleight of hand

I've been looping Pink Floyd 
to drown out the dark. Waging a war 
with three-pronged trident to find wall socket, 
forgetting to add water. 
Letting the burnt bitter linger and leaving
these hotel curtains all the way open. 
            (Drawing them closed: burying a body 
            and pulling the shroud over bloodless feet.) 
Time rushes at me in great globules 
through a sieve--
the present moment nearly here and then
gone. 
A game of cards you lose
before riffling through the trick deck—mud & bad hair cuts 
& clean sheets & spam calls & strawberries & triggers
& burnt toast & birthdays & kids & taxis 
& Tuesdays & nails & leftovers
& dandelions--
your hand a fish out of water, 
a trick of light, straining, straining,
coming up empty.

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Rachel Chen studies neuroscience and creative writing at the University of Rochester. Her work has been recognized nationally by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and received the American Voices Medal in 2019. She drinks excessive quantities of lukewarm tea.

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