Yuyi Chen

Three poems from Speculative Fiction

“Aunt,” when carefully pronounced, eludes slippage,

                  depending on the accent, 
  I say “on”: 

a position, where gravity implied, therefore 
there’s pressure, even order. 

More so, an infrastructure.
Like a brother. 

A brother exists, he might say: “ant” 
Common insect, when observed,

     movement affirms
their life, nimble, endless.

Their antenna, mysterious, communication wise
calls for a mutuality, metaphorically 

more so - a family. 

A family, in some histories, produce more than one
 aunt. One brother; many sisters. Who move

                                                                nimble, endless. 

I have two aunts, bigger and small.                                                                
I call them, Gūgū - 

Swift repetition, some tense required
around the lips. 

The words are learned, endowed. They sound like animal:
intentionally so.

“Brother,” on the other hand, indicates smth too big; therefore, 
has to be divided. Has to have politics.

Like a “borough.” Always presumes many; many maketh a borough
of those travelled vast. 

My aunts have never been to a borough. They work towards such scale, 
nonetheless. A journey inward,

sponsored, with security, by “state-owned company.” Sounding not like
a brother, the understanding, however,

resonates. The entirety of your insanity, paid for. The scarce years,
lingered. The food & wash, came with 

history and pain. I don’t have a brother, but I could bear one. There’s
a big cock in me already. 

The manyness of this cock, a city to govern as well.

Supposedly I break down at 25 without employment 
at a state-owned company to fulfill my years 
of mind loss until middle age, 
I follow the family tradition of timbering
an almost green light on the marble floor
reminiscent of an age easily feisty 
but the tale is not to be. 

Small aunt loved a tour guide 
not out of coincidence,
she ran away and got pulled back 
to the escape routine just like
a pacing - a pathing
for me. 

Women in my family are weathers, 
dictators; Men are kids. 
I am the margin. 
I am not supposed to be far like this. 

Counting down the days when they catch me 
in my back forth: kneeling down, bigger aunt
folds me neat, like a used pad. 
The next no-schizophrenia-pill period 
is when she
starts the interrogation again:

Am I being watched? 
Is my family betraying me?
Are you looking down on me?

Wherever I go, a home starts with the prophylactic ceiling.

Yuyi Chen is from Sichuan, China. They are now a PhD candidate in anthropology at Johns Hopkins University. Erotic Continent is their first book of poetry, out now from Discount Guillotine. Their writings can be found online and in print. They go by Echo.