Crescent Moons

When the forensics nurse inspected me, she couldn’t
see the tenderness he showed me after. My walk home

squirmed sore with night. I passed the earthworms
displaced to sidewalk, their bodies apostrophed

in the sun. I did not anticipate a grief
so small, my noun of a prayer, Eat dirt to make dirt.

Took a man’s hand as he led me to cave. So long
as I breathed, I could huff violets in his dank, practice

earth’s gasp. Mother lifts daughter, daughter casts
look at camera, a killer, a stick in the mud. I hold

my own hand. When the forensic nurse inspected
me, I described the house, historic blue. Asked me

to push my hips down. Little crescent moons
where his nails stabbed into me. She gave me

the word abrasion so gently I offered consent. Blue
as the moon when I sighed wait, blue as the no of my

throat. Abrasion, possibly extended form of red.
Harm results in a starry night too, many galaxies

scraped under the nail of a heavenly body. Ah my
second earth, its wounds hardened into swallowed 

prophylaxis, an injection pooling between muscle
and skin. A woke seed. Deadarmed anti-moons

aggregated. A storm can travel seeds up to 30 miles
away. They dust on the sidewalks like lost data.

He did not intend Did not. Bloody speculum
a telescope searching the angry night sky for proof.

—Originally published on Poem-a-Day

BOOKS

Indictus 
(forthcoming from Noemi Press; winner of the 2016 Noemi Press Contest)

Pub date: 1/1/2018; for reviews and interviews, please contact me at n.d.eilbert [at] gmail [dot] com, or via my website.

Pub date: 1/1/2018; for reviews and interviews, please contact me at n.d.eilbert [at] gmail [dot] com, or via my website.

Swan Feast (2015)

 

“There is no document of civilization that isn’t also its ruins.” Swan Feast is the banquet of a fallen goddess, told through the trance of an autobiographical duckling girl. The transforming voice is visionary. She connects the discovery of the Venus of Willendorf to the discovery of oil in the Middle East, implicating imperial industrialism to the passing away of Venus into faded memory and historical anorexia. Empire is the tomb of the goddess. To excavate is a “hilarious privilege,” and its anachronism borrows illumination from darkness. The duckling is resurrecting ancient powers whose excavation ride on rage, grief, a woman’s paradoxically empowered desperation which finds solidity in disappearance. In the wake of suffering, we may remember ourselves. Out of ruin, an alien star rises.
— FENG SUN CHEN
 

Chapbooks

And I Shall Again Be Virtuous (2014)

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Conversation with the Stone Wife (2014)