—after Chen Chen’s “We’ll Be Gone After These Brief Messages”

God came to visit on the Leonardo da Vinci

and whispered to me of his Mysteries over red pasta.

Did you know there are an infinite number of universes

stretched out in a grid in eleven dimensions?

In every one of them is a fresh version of me,

all making mistakes that could easily be avoided

if I didn’t have a rusted bear-trap for brains. It’s true.

In every universe there is also a version of you

making better mistakes and cleaning up after me.

I over-peppered the pasta, and God sneezed like a lion.

We laughed. He bid farewell and left on the Andrea Doria.

A hundred universes over, Chen Chen and I are good friends.

Another dozen over, and we can actually stand each other.

I want to moult light like stained glass on fire.

I settle for thuribles, and make peace with my mother.

I’m proud for no reason. I’m gay, but not queer. Mostly

I’m an ace up the sleeve, a spare to help cheat in the night.

Don’t you agree I ought to grow up? This world is wide

enough for us all and our grandchildren also.

Ignore me; I flay myself so others won’t have to.

Armed cadres keep score, and apportion mere rice grains.

Dissenters have been smothered by ten million flowers.

I’ve seen men beaten to death for lying with their wives

in the grass when there’s work to be done. It’s famine.

Of what use are prized turquoise or magenta blossoms?

Passion don’t mean much when the sparrows drop dead.

Let’s ration our chocolate bars, they may be our last.

When I mean to, I dissipate like snow in a pot set to boiling.

It’s easy to sublimate when there’s work to be done.

Every day I relearn the art of ducking for cover.

BOP to the forehead! I’m tired of living a political existence.

But I, also, dream of mermen devouring me atop gold sand,

their taloned fingers dragging, their weight

a good crush, the friction of hips an amber fission,

their iridescent scales blinding as they guide me to Heaven.

I, too, wish to taste the delights which you’ve tasted.

Dear Chen Chen, my pen friend Chen Chen,

I disliked your book, but know we two are brothers in arms.

Or, at least, cousins who see each other once a year.

I must go to sleep now. Blow Boston a kiss for me.

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Sean Eaton is a self-taught poet from New England, USA. His favorite poet is Ruth Stone. Past publications include About Place Journal, Stone Poetry Quarterly, and Hawaii Pacific Review.