Chen Chen & Sam Herschel Wein

Peach Compote Avalanche

from which I will never recover.
from which grew entire trees, bushels
of might, floridaically. I am overtaken
by a heinous sweet nausea not unlike
whenever I think of summer camp.
Not unlike the mosquito-ridden
woods, the letters from Mom fallen
off bunk-beds in the moist, wooden
cabin, burgeoning homosexuality.
I want to lean into that night. I want to
fall over into this overabundance
of breakfast. Mother, help! Hey!
My burps! My wrists! My leaning
bellies, stuffed beyond the clouds,
swirling! If only I could remember
what I learned at camp. Just one knot
or method for making fire. But all
I can remember is the juices, colorful
and spilled onto my white shorts,
the first pair I owned, and how peachy
they were, though they weren’t
peach juice. Summer, perpetually
a confusion. Summer, occasionally,
a time I would look at the boys
changing, and think, goodness,
think, veritably, think, hmmmmmmmmmmm
penis. Think, how, still, I look at
boys like this on the street, after
breakfast, like a kid again, ogling
like a storm at the height of summer,
all blurry, blustering shriek,
seeking another storm.

for our younger, super queer selves

Now More Than Ever, We Are in a Moment of Time

for Sylvia Plath’s Typewriter

Thou moppest the way 
I wish to be mopped
Slinking along the floor 
like a wet turtle
O wet sound O wet look 
Just before, in a happier time, 
we grated cheese
Who knew such harmony 
could be harnessed 
via long shreds of cheddar 
Who knew that six years ago, 
in Massachusetts, 
two young gays would collide 
before Sylvia Plath’s typewriter,
upon which one of the young gays 
ceremoniously typed “poop”
Who knew if Sylvia Plath’s typewriter
had ever received such 
scatological messages
In my sweet December exhaustion 
let me recline and recall 
these faggy serendipities 
these genre-defying shit jokes 
O wet look O wet sound