Untitled
by Chen Chen
The rain wants to ask me
about its sun-piercing mind—
I know.
I know this, even today
on Governors Island where even the trees’
questions are a form of heat
and I want to put on this glittery mask
as though it were a wearable mist
machine, and in fact there is a mist
machine, just a couple feet away,
but clearly that is too far
from the pores of my forehead
in which the rain, yes, is asking,
And you here? Are you the tree
I want to fall onto? To nourish?
And the pores of my forehead keep replying,
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
This poem is an excerpt from the first Milk Happening Zine, a product of the inaugural Milk Press Happening.