by Ellen Chai

Published in Issue No. 209 ~ October, 2014

Her flushed cheekbones,

Flame-capped peaks razing

Gates of horn and ivory.


She turns her head,

Her body still motionless,

Her eyelids fluttering in spasms,

The rise and fall of her oblong chest

Crosshatched with white noise.


The blanket purrs a sibilant melody,

Her hand rests upon its pharynx.

Sleeves half drawn up and her wrist

Studded with dried sweat.


She sleeps as the air conditioner groans, as

The police siren wails, as

Her stuffed giraffe tumbles

To the ground.


Lights dimmed, we know not

Of what she dreams.



account_box More About

Ellen Chai is a sophomore at Washington University in St. Louis. She developed an avid interest in literature, poetry, and philosophy at an early age, and especially enjoys existential, decadent, and modernist themes. Poetry and photography are her favored modes of expression. Her poems tend to be soulful and contemplative.