Sleepingfish infinite

Portraits of My Family a’> Last Dinner by Annie Fan





father’s dead; leave the cup by his eyes made of plums made of

fruit trees fed with wasp venom made of spot juice mingled into the blood

from his ulcer,

from his wherever

                                   i’m not sure that he was thinking when he did this,

                                   I mean, christ, what is this magic or oujia

two sips                     are you sure you’re a doctor, too long and his heart

                                   is becoming a snake, a turtle,

from this, from this:

                       China – 1. between the cup and the water in it the cup or the water in

                                               an engineer sipping coffee and dicing his eggs

                                               with an automated slice maker,

                                     2. he thinks the last train left five minutes ago, so what

                                               are we going to do, he’s hungry, he’s foreign,

                                               fucking gone native like, Jesus h;

                                               we’ve got to wait, got to make him

                                               eat or into someone who can find trees

                                               an echo of the gardens at menjing

                                                                      garden where he cut off his pinky cutting wood

                                               into the stems of fruit trees

 (or youth days where no bird

                                   no beer no hush no bright-

                                                                      eyed wife tattooed into his

                                                          legs, a child)

up the bileduct, up the pits of oranges and lemons where up the huangjian

they grew


up fruit trees

fed with wasp venom jammed stings swollen

up in May when he wakes up

dreaming of ruined plums and smiles from a woman

who blushed with blood.







's-brother        a)crouched under the

's-it's-of;         bath’s waterline

glass.               unmaking himself skinless




's-finch            with shy hands searching

's-it's-of;         for a judas bone

vanity,                        until the boughs of his arms




's-snakes         hung and plunged

's-it's-of;         as simple as swimming – like




's-3anglelike    he thought he could

's-startline;      turn

's-it's-of          himself out, from inside


                                   b)alone in the garden; leave the riverlip overflowing in water to make

–'s                               bibles from the softpith of plum saplings bleached orange

yellowsquare                         the same way a tango is spilt down the

in-among                    subway

yellowsquare              escalator, the fizzy – goddamn

in-among                    it all, everything you used to believe

yellowsquare              was automated, bread slicers and blood are really

–'s       broken like plum cysts below




And now honest to god I think

this is how it is                      :china


place on a map + water + concrete + fish – gulls – coral – fish or the fisherman

                                               as plumesmog becomes a god, who I imagine with

                                               eyes like orbits flooding in politic


                                               (lucky) twin girls linking on and

                                               into the meat on the link meaty

                                               with dreams

                                               I washed from my body,

                       the snake didn’t stop moving,

                       belly down

                       past ashes of yellowgold and

                       oranges drawn up to my skidmarked knees.

                       where the


                       made fruit venom for more and



            d.kept me as a baby

e.a whale/fuck quietly)

                                   opened up.


Process News

Annie Fan is a Foyle Young Poet. Her most recent poems can be found stuck to the fridge, or forthcoming in the Yellow Chair Review, Powder Keg and Transect, among others. She is a prose editor at TRACK//FOUR.


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