Phantom Limb

By Chris Song

My finger draws across the poems

sparkling fire,

words burn through the lashes

into my empty eyes,

the train with your words passes through,

would it connect your horizon and mine?

Shadow —

a sickle over the pages,

hung never in the air,

reaping all the ripe ink,

in that confined office next door.

Your name is a legend in that chamber,

the invisible pen staggers swiftly,

on the blank sheet —

an empty chessboard.

Your poems drill into the cold keyhole,

searching for a new twig in this bareness —

the absent hand

still writing.

(Translated by Linda Lam)