Jennifer Chang received a BA from the University of Chicago in 1998, an MFA from the University of Virginia in 2002, and a PhD in English from the University of Virginia in 2017. She is the author of Some Say the Lark (Alice James Books, 2017) and The History of Anonymity (University of Georgia Press, 2008). She currently serves as an assistant professor at George Washington University and lives in Washington, D.C.
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It was inside, gathering heat in her blood, slowly killing her.
No one said a word.
And this grew her fury further, grieved her immeasurably.
What did it look like.
A knot, or a slag of granite.
I imagined another brother, unborn for he was only a knot.
How my granite brother would never leave her.
I grew up in her abject sadness, which soon became our speaking.
And then I left.
Smaller, smaller, he was her favorite.
Jays nag the first light.
And now I am awake before dawn hoping today is a day when I won’t have to say anything.
And then I.
To me, it was unintelligible.
I could see through her skin, see my brother not growing inside her.
Would he ever come outside.
The raging jays, the squawking catastrophe.
I wanted to know.
What is the difference between a son and a daughter, I wanted to know.
That is private.
That was her answer.