Brian Chan

the origins of rebirth

There is something pathetic in the post-pacific—
rules in shapeless borders, cracking at the rims. 

Even the sea is begging to be swallowed
by the earth, its white froth angled like scars. 

When I was young, I confused this land for settlement—
gripping rocks saltlicked by seaspray, above 

this non-Euclidean hymn of cascading waves, the crash
an immigrant to the shoreline. 

I latch onto gravity—slash myself so far
into this plane of watery skin, 

my arms flailing, as if drowning is not just an axiom
for the sea. I am a study 

in anatomy; a flying Vitruvian Man.
All this life wrung out before me— 

time splashing back: amniotic fluid taking
the shape of a body. 

Seawater can enter a soul—fertilize a homunculus buried
in blue. The light, cutting through each surface vein, 

extracting a voice from the gurgling sand below.
Something in that ocean song echoing vaster, 

sleeping deeper. Something about
an orchestra, composing until it grows dark.

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Brian Chan is a 17-year-old Chinese-American writer and student from New York. What he loves most are red pandas, his family, reading poetry and the 2 by 3 foot Beyoncé poster above his desk—not necessarily in that order.