Longevity and Thin God by Elena Zhang
Poetry editor Ellen K. Fee on today’s poems: Elena Zhang’s poems are tight blocks of prose with a surprising porousness—how else could the star have gotten in there? Through spaces like the “crack in my eyelid” or the “dense and decaying” body, we catch glimpses of light: crane feathers, a dwarf star, a god. Spoiler alert: the poet expected a plot twist but got—nevermind. You’ll have to read for yourself.
longevity
The crane bends over backwards trying to see the star in my brain. I didn’t put it there. It was the aliens. There was no more room in the sky for a white dwarf, but my skull was empty and vast. Now I am dense and decaying. I try to tell this to the crane, but it has already exploded, feathers raining everywhere.
Thin god
Thin God slipped into the crack in my eyelid, and that was how I came to know my mother. Thin God promised me more time, but I knew Thin God always lied in the morning. Thin God convinced the aliens to cleave a cloud into a boy and a girl. Instead, the aliens created a comedian and a bird. Thin God ate the aliens and gave me a baby. Thin God told me my story had a twist ending, but by the time I fell asleep with the baby in my arms, I forgot I was in a story at all.
Elena Zhang is a Chinese American writer and mother living in Chicago. Her work can be found in HAD, The Citron Review, and X-R-A-Y, among other publications. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, and was selected for Best Microfiction 2024 and 2025. Find her on Bluesky at @ezhang77.
