Ava Chen

Jude Posthumous

Like the welding of glass onto wrists
worn dark with peroxide, I dive back
 
into jaundiced pages tasting of mildew
and expired rosé. It’s three a.m. and the
 
CD is still flossed between two anthologies.
Retina, a clockwork orange. Harold’s marble
 
cabinet stutters with his burgeoning tears.
I willingly stay buffeted by whitewater,
 
comforter twisted between my knees. Still
panging, mirror-touch synesthesia. The
 
feverish voice memos I never deleted
from Nevada. Fallen pillowcases collect
 
ants, the same ones skittering seven-
month crayons and contact solution
 
cardboard. The voice of the dead gutters
in the ink, September slits through my
 
plastic-green curtains, and Harold’s
anguish bleeds into my eyelet nightgown.

Ava Chen is a poet based in Massachusetts. In her work, she enjoys exploring dreamscapes, the mundane, and memories through abstract and experimental language.