poem index

sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox

About this poet

Jennifer Chang is the author of The History of Anonymity (University of Georgia Press, 2008). She teaches at George Washington University and lives in Washington, D.C. 

Pastoral

Jennifer Chang

Something in the field is
working away. Root-noise.
Twig-noise. Plant
of weak chlorophyll, no
name for it. Something
in the field has mastered
distance by living too close
to fences. Yellow fruit, has it
pit or seeds? Stalk of wither. Grass-
noise fighting weed-noise. Dirt
and chant. Something in the
field. Coreopsis. I did not mean
to say that. Yellow petal, has it
wither-gift? Has it gorgeous
rash? Leaf-loss and worried 
sprout, its bursting art. Some-
thing in the. Field fallowed and
cicada. I did not mean to
say. Has it roar and bloom?
Has it road to follow? A thistle
prick, fraught burrs, such
easy attachment. Stem-
and stamen-noise. Can I lime-
flower? Can I chamomile?
Something in the field cannot.

From The History of Anonymity by Jennifer Chang. Copyright © 2008 by Jennifer Chang. Reprinted by permission of University of Georgia Press. All rights reserved.

From The History of Anonymity by Jennifer Chang. Copyright © 2008 by Jennifer Chang. Reprinted by permission of University of Georgia Press. All rights reserved.

Jennifer Chang

Jennifer Chang

Jennifer Chang is the author of The History of Anonymity (University of Georgia Press, 2008). She teaches at George Washington University and lives in Washington, D.C. 

by this poet

poem

                        on my birthday

I want a future
making hammocks
out of figs and accidents.
Or a future quieter
than snow. The leopards
stake out the backyard
and will flee at noon.
My terror is not secret,
but necessary,
as the wild must be,

poem

She’s in the desert
releasing the ashes of her father,
the ashes of her child,
or the ashes of the world. She is not

what she observes. The rare spinystar.
It does not belong to her. Bright needle threading
a cloud through the sky. There’s sun enough,
there’s afterlife. Her own

poem
Dark matter, are you 
sparkless 

for lack of knowing
better? The room 

you've spun is distant
and indivisible—

a flickering lapsarian,
you satisfy no mute

progress but 
collapse, spiral, winded

by unwinding. Dear 
enigma kid, dear psychic

soft spot, I write you
from under eight spastic 

lights, each