What Rough Beast | Poem for October 16, 2017

a chinese woman lives next door, and i hear her whispers when i head to bed, words like beautiful repeated without end as if putting them together would stir up an entirely different meaning. maybe something like emptiness, something quivering in the arms of a fog and reaches out, only to find that there is the illusion of an illusion. i’ve seen her gaze so many times, a palette of misty amber that trickles down into its reflection; sliced up memories in the desert of a stomach. sometimes, i feel the shadow of her eyes tailgating that of mine, making sure to send trickles of sand in my path. cluster adds on to cluster, yet i don’t know what to see. tomorrow, i’ll ask for her guidance, before shaking her gloved hands and whispering bye auntie mei.

Adam Zhou’s poetry has appeared in The Rising Phoenix Review and The Kill List Chronicles. In 2017, Zhou won a National Silver Medal for personal essay and memoir from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards (presented by the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers), the longest-running and most prestigious recognition program in the United States for creative teens in grades 7–12. He is a sophomore at the International School Manila.

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