The King Must Die
I do not
trust the strength of our gods
in the most fertile land
I have seen people shredding each other apart
our body bursts out laughing by
ingesting fresh sap
celebrating spectrum in our vein
made by ephemeral subjugation
you must know I once believed in
the spirit of virility
you must know the king is my
sister and he has to die
our gods were killed by
protecting weeds and butterflies
I do not trust our gods and
all kings must die
so that
we follow democracy
underfoot
an unsuitable queen
The Auctioneer Hits the Hammer
For John Sotheby
My ass burns northward
after sitting behind the desk for twelve hours
and hearing you shout that
free coffee is only for bidders.
John, have you heard of the floater program?
Art history graduates wander to different
departments learning art things and operation,
receiving the highest minimum hourly wage,
$14 and loitering six days a week.
The job description indicates new employees
aren’t supposed to maintain souls,
no eating so their bodies are yielding.
Will you apply?
Will you go to Iceland,
mother nature’s so-called prettiest?
Are landscapes also fine art for sale?
John, the art handler shared that he was lonely
by eating meals at the empty round table.
I, too, love the lonesome. I cried at the
gallery because no one would visit while
floaters gossiped about the new CEO like he’s
their freshly dead neighbor.
John, let me remind you of your name here
in case you try to leave the chair.
I learned to pronounce your name in ESL
classes and always mixed you up with Mary.
Nameless, none of the artists live close to 74th
street, they collect a summer in their paints
for winters to pass through.
After the 2008 financial crisis, you
focus on Asian and Middle Eastern art.
The Chinese faces twist in rage and fulfill
the lobby, not because of a bull market
nor being forced to travel nor what you
wrested from their ancestors, but because
your machine can’t read CUP cards.
John, would you hire me as your assistant?
You were a book lover who stole from
libraries, I was an art appreciator and
now a stock-cannot-affordee.
John, you’re dead but your spirit is up to
sell eternally, it is not fair. You’re only the
nephew of the founder. Our love
won’t last the length of an auction.
Chia-Lun Chang is the author of Prescribee (2022), winner of the Nightboat Poetry Prize, and two chapbooks, An Alien Well-Tamed (Belladonna*, 2022) and One Day We Become Whites (No, Dear, 2016). She has received support from Jerome Foundation, Vermont Studio Center, Tofte Lake Center, Poets House, and Lower Manhattan Cultural Council among others. Chia-Lun teaches contemporary Taiwanese poetry and fiction at the Brooklyn Public Library. Born and raised in New Taipei City, Taiwan, she lives in Brooklyn.
“The Auctioneer Hits the Hammer” and “The King Must Die” by Chia-Lun Chang, from Prescribee (Nightboat Books, 2022). Copyright (c) 2022 by Chia-Lun Chang. Reprinted with permission of Nightboat Books.
