Elena Zhang ~ Three Prose Poems

Tornado

Tornado pulling bod­ies out of the ground. They tum­ble around the city in pairs of two. Mottled hands briefly touch­ing, then whisked apart. We are con­front­ed by our loved ones once again. It is the after­noon, and I’m lying down in the shape of a par­ty trick.

~

Evening Music

I was at the mas­sacre. It sound­ed like a human pop song. It sound­ed like glit­ter in open hands. I ran towards the for­est, but it sim­ply became a sug­ges­tion. The expanse of life trem­bled on paper. I was not afraid, only con­fused by the seat­ing arrange­ments. The orches­tra asked for direc­tions to the moon. Nodding, I point­ed towards my blood, still warm and singing.

~

Artifacts

In the city park there is a secret tem­ple full of my old fam­i­ly pho­tos. You have to bend down low to get through the tiny door. You have to crawl on the dusty stone floor for miles. Then you will find a shoe­box filled with my old fam­i­ly pho­tos. In one of the pic­tures, I am not yet loved. The tem­ple will be demol­ished short­ly due to zon­ing restric­tions. In its place will grow an ancient tree.

~

Elena Zhang is a Chinese American writer and moth­er liv­ing in Chicago. Her work can be found in The Offing, Wigleaf, 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, 2025, and 2026.