Jennifer Chiu
Jennifer Chiu (she/her) is from Memphis, TN. Her prose and poetry are published or forthcoming in Cosmonauts Avenue, Rust + Moth, and elsewhere. When she's not writing, she can be found admiring the sky or bullet journaling with one of her twenty-one 0.38mm black pens. She tweets at @jenniferrchiu.
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When night comes and hides your monsters,
Call me streetlight: the yellow light beams
tendriling your ghosts, chasing their shadows
into your path. Call me flame: orange trembling
between your hands as cigarette ignites. Don’t
you know that monsters tend towards smoke, every charred
memory you try to wisp away? Your throat chokes
with unsung bodies, coughing out something
like a repentance. So call me daylight: the sun burnt
into a crisp you piece between your teeth, all the world
in flicker and kindling. Your footfall heavy as you trace
the streets and flay your soles against everything
broken. Or perhaps flashlight: illuminating these ghosts
until your eyes can no longer claim milky,
writhing away from sight. Come, there is no blindness
here—you see the world overturning on its axis now. Your cigarette
singeing bullet wounds into your sundress, these bodies sinking
into their graves. When night has passed, the ghosts, these shadows
and their after-images will remain. Do not be foolish, the monsters
you cannot burn away: it was your fire that created them.
tendriling your ghosts, chasing their shadows
into your path. Call me flame: orange trembling
between your hands as cigarette ignites. Don’t
you know that monsters tend towards smoke, every charred
memory you try to wisp away? Your throat chokes
with unsung bodies, coughing out something
like a repentance. So call me daylight: the sun burnt
into a crisp you piece between your teeth, all the world
in flicker and kindling. Your footfall heavy as you trace
the streets and flay your soles against everything
broken. Or perhaps flashlight: illuminating these ghosts
until your eyes can no longer claim milky,
writhing away from sight. Come, there is no blindness
here—you see the world overturning on its axis now. Your cigarette
singeing bullet wounds into your sundress, these bodies sinking
into their graves. When night has passed, the ghosts, these shadows
and their after-images will remain. Do not be foolish, the monsters
you cannot burn away: it was your fire that created them.
Commentary
Jennifer on "When night comes and hides your monsters,":
I was inspired to write this poem in light of the Black Lives Matter movement, as a response to some of the willful ignorance or inaction that I've seen arise from it.
I've always been fascinated by streetlights and how they illuminate and reveal our surroundings. In a way, the past few months have served as streetlights: opening so many people's eyes and revealing the injustices of our society. For me, light is often associated with fire, which can be destructive but also revolutionary and purposeful. This is a poem for those avoiding these issues by hiding in the dark, but also the ones who aren't afraid to be the streetlight, the fire, the daylight.
It's my hope that, as a society, we can move forward with change now, but it can't happen if inequity and injustice are not realized. To reconcile this idea with the original image of hiding and darkness, I wanted to bring all of these threads back together in the ending: we're no longer blind, and we can't use that as an excuse anymore. We're aware of these injustices now, and we must confront them.
EIC Christine Taylor on "When night comes and hides your monsters,":
I watch John Oliver's Last Week Tonight religiously. On the June 7, 2020, episode, Oliver featured a clip by Kimberly Latrice Jones, who explains her perspective on the riots that have occurred in 2020. At the end of the clip, she says, "Far as I’m concerned, they could burn this bitch to the ground, and it still wouldn’t be enough. And they are lucky that what black people are looking for is equality and not revenge." Well. . .yeah. And here we are. We see you now, and we've been seeing you through your attempts to hide in the shadows of your own misdeeds (a euphemism, for sure). When Jennifer's poem came across the transom, I immediately thought of Jones' words. . . and they linger. It's time, people. It's been time. . . .
I was inspired to write this poem in light of the Black Lives Matter movement, as a response to some of the willful ignorance or inaction that I've seen arise from it.
I've always been fascinated by streetlights and how they illuminate and reveal our surroundings. In a way, the past few months have served as streetlights: opening so many people's eyes and revealing the injustices of our society. For me, light is often associated with fire, which can be destructive but also revolutionary and purposeful. This is a poem for those avoiding these issues by hiding in the dark, but also the ones who aren't afraid to be the streetlight, the fire, the daylight.
It's my hope that, as a society, we can move forward with change now, but it can't happen if inequity and injustice are not realized. To reconcile this idea with the original image of hiding and darkness, I wanted to bring all of these threads back together in the ending: we're no longer blind, and we can't use that as an excuse anymore. We're aware of these injustices now, and we must confront them.
EIC Christine Taylor on "When night comes and hides your monsters,":
I watch John Oliver's Last Week Tonight religiously. On the June 7, 2020, episode, Oliver featured a clip by Kimberly Latrice Jones, who explains her perspective on the riots that have occurred in 2020. At the end of the clip, she says, "Far as I’m concerned, they could burn this bitch to the ground, and it still wouldn’t be enough. And they are lucky that what black people are looking for is equality and not revenge." Well. . .yeah. And here we are. We see you now, and we've been seeing you through your attempts to hide in the shadows of your own misdeeds (a euphemism, for sure). When Jennifer's poem came across the transom, I immediately thought of Jones' words. . . and they linger. It's time, people. It's been time. . . .