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Self-Portrait, New City Replicant

To heat a sister           	          House a burn

           adjust the replica body
                      in the yesterday travel rain

no sister locks the door 	at the highest temperature
three hours still parked 	still comfortable to eat  	sugar by force

only because each house keeps a burn together
       	   drinks the page            	An unseasoned tree
chosen to go to the sea

Ching-In Chen is a genderqueer Chinese American writer, community organizer, and teacher. They are the author of recombinant (Kelsey Street Press, 2017) and The Heart’s Traffic (Arktoi/Red Hen Press, 2009).

A Kundiman and Lambda Fellow, they have also been awarded residencies and fellowships from Callaloo, The Watering Hole, Can Serrat, Jack Straw Cultural Center, the Millay Colony for the Arts, Imagining America, EmergeNYC, the Intercultural Leadership Institute, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts.

About Ching-In Chen

Occasion

Asian/Pacific American Heritage Month

Themes

About this Poem

“This poem is part of a series of speculative poems I wrote while waiting out heavy rainstorms that caused flooding in Houston, Texas, in April 2016 and prevented me from commuting the long distance to work. I captured the surreal feeling of being hemmed in yet disconnected from severe weather by collaging translated language through my father’s Facebook statuses into what I was writing in response. I kept recycling and reusing this language while continuing to write in response to personal disaster (having our landlords in the Third Ward lose their house to foreclosure without informing us) and public disaster (Hurricane Harvey).”

—Ching-In Chen

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More by this poet

diagram a ghost

in January, I was a girl
not a city
streetless and star remote

friends whistle me up
in my wolf cap
saw me and my ceiling
for rescue

I whittle down my cheekbones

Ching-In Chen

2017

Spell for Safety

^{for my trans and nonbinary students crossing the stage at Lavender Graduation}

Maybe it was you learning to walk home

cross-wise, your own safety valve.

You, who trained a tongue

chosen name, listening for reflection to speak

back. You, I’m calling you,

grew yourself at argument’s end,

Ching-In Chen

2018

Breath for Metal

This a story
I’ve kept in soft
orange inside
my steel body. I’ve wanted

to wait until I’ve
cooled to hum, until
my touch wouldn’t burn.

I’ve practiced to gentle

Ching-In Chen

2023

Poems

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Self-Portrait, New City Replicant

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