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black and white overlays of feminine faces
Zone 3 Press, the literary magazine of Austin Peay State University
Volume 40, Issue 1
Volume 40, Issue 1

apology to a rat postmortem

  • By Rachel Fan

                    i  
You blinked   
                     once  
           maybe  
     twice  
       before the ice bath  
settled around your belly
your whiskers         
   twitched 
then stopped.  

They told me hold it there  
   until it stops  
      spinning  

  you twitched  
      once more  
        then nothing  

  & me  
i stood with gloved hands  
             sweating  
kept the stopwatch running     
  even after.  

It was not my fault                                        i told myself.
            Your body opened
without resistance &
             the scalpel slid through
skin & membrane           i  
            & there it was                                                told  
a sudden glisten
           fat yellowed
a bead of blood surfacing  
            from somewhere                                my 
it should have stayed                                                       self  

            ii  

Why?  

a question that keeps on
giving up. i still stitch with
blood on my latex fingers.  

Why?  

did your spine hurt pulled 
to pieces? i should’ve pressed
harder. i was too kind.  

Why?  

how long is algor mortis
for a translucent
bean-sized mouse?  

Why?  

you’re bent like a question
mark with your greening
liver forming the dot.  

Why?  

i speak the word
until it loses
its meaning.  

            iii  

at home 
my mother’s voice
was already waiting  

she held her grief in words made
sharp by repetition  

你连名字都没给它                                                                     you didn’t even name her 
你连一炷香都不烧                                                                          you didn’t burn incense for her 
你连看都没多看一眼                                                                         you turned your head after  
                                                                                                                 you cut hers off  
                                                                                                   & never looked back  

                                                 iv  

& no one knew what I was missing
when your freshly-peeled gut tipped
toward the tray & I held my clipboard
steady against the seeing. After the dissection
I still carried enough silence in my throat
to build a morgue & call it my laboratory
call it the reason I wrote in sterile notation
when she told me I should have brought
something a cloth a word at least my own hands
But I only had the gloves.  

I didn’t speak.
The light above buzzed evenly. 
There were five more mice to go.  

                 v  

                what we plant in the soil of contemplation
                            we shall reap in the harvest of action  
                                      — Meister Eckheart  

So maybe I belong to the universe of unspoken
apologies         where no candles burn for ceremony
no rites to mark the passage        no rakish laughter 
to lighten what weighs down the table   just your body 
buried under ice   like a seed waiting for spring   that 
will never come   still humming with the roundabout
noise of what we do for knowledge     what we sacrifice 
for understanding      & I am left wondering if the harvest
was worth the planting if the wisdom was worth
the silence between us            this terrible flowering of regret.  

the buzzworm 
does not weep
it tunnels forward
it evolves   

About Rachel Fan

Rachel Fan is a 17-year-old poet from Shanghai and Connecticut. When not filling notebooks with verse or daydreaming about the cosmos between bedroom walls, she can be found contemplating the poetic potential of her concerningly overweight cat, debating metaphors with her brother, or explaining to her loving family why she needs to keep that tenth unfinished poem about dandelions. 

black and white overlays of feminine faces
Zone 3 Press, the literary magazine of Austin Peay State University
Volume 40, Issue 1
Volume 40, Issue 1

apology to a rat postmortem

  • By Rachel Fan

                    i  
You blinked   
                     once  
           maybe  
     twice  
       before the ice bath  
settled around your belly
your whiskers         
   twitched 
then stopped.  

They told me hold it there  
   until it stops  
      spinning  

  you twitched  
      once more  
        then nothing  

  & me  
i stood with gloved hands  
             sweating  
kept the stopwatch running     
  even after.  

It was not my fault                                        i told myself.
            Your body opened
without resistance &
             the scalpel slid through
skin & membrane           i  
            & there it was                                                told  
a sudden glisten
           fat yellowed
a bead of blood surfacing  
            from somewhere                                my 
it should have stayed                                                       self  

            ii  

Why?  

a question that keeps on
giving up. i still stitch with
blood on my latex fingers.  

Why?  

did your spine hurt pulled 
to pieces? i should’ve pressed
harder. i was too kind.  

Why?  

how long is algor mortis
for a translucent
bean-sized mouse?  

Why?  

you’re bent like a question
mark with your greening
liver forming the dot.  

Why?  

i speak the word
until it loses
its meaning.  

            iii  

at home 
my mother’s voice
was already waiting  

she held her grief in words made
sharp by repetition  

你连名字都没给它                                                                     you didn’t even name her 
你连一炷香都不烧                                                                          you didn’t burn incense for her 
你连看都没多看一眼                                                                         you turned your head after  
                                                                                                                 you cut hers off  
                                                                                                   & never looked back  

                                                 iv  

& no one knew what I was missing
when your freshly-peeled gut tipped
toward the tray & I held my clipboard
steady against the seeing. After the dissection
I still carried enough silence in my throat
to build a morgue & call it my laboratory
call it the reason I wrote in sterile notation
when she told me I should have brought
something a cloth a word at least my own hands
But I only had the gloves.  

I didn’t speak.
The light above buzzed evenly. 
There were five more mice to go.  

                 v  

                what we plant in the soil of contemplation
                            we shall reap in the harvest of action  
                                      — Meister Eckheart  

So maybe I belong to the universe of unspoken
apologies         where no candles burn for ceremony
no rites to mark the passage        no rakish laughter 
to lighten what weighs down the table   just your body 
buried under ice   like a seed waiting for spring   that 
will never come   still humming with the roundabout
noise of what we do for knowledge     what we sacrifice 
for understanding      & I am left wondering if the harvest
was worth the planting if the wisdom was worth
the silence between us            this terrible flowering of regret.  

the buzzworm 
does not weep
it tunnels forward
it evolves   

Volume 40, Issue 1
Volume 40, Issue 1

apology to a rat postmortem

  • By Rachel Fan

                    i  
You blinked   
                     once  
           maybe  
     twice  
       before the ice bath  
settled around your belly
your whiskers         
   twitched 
then stopped.  

They told me hold it there  
   until it stops  
      spinning  

  you twitched  
      once more  
        then nothing  

  & me  
i stood with gloved hands  
             sweating  
kept the stopwatch running     
  even after.  

It was not my fault                                        i told myself.
            Your body opened
without resistance &
             the scalpel slid through
skin & membrane           i  
            & there it was                                                told  
a sudden glisten
           fat yellowed
a bead of blood surfacing  
            from somewhere                                my 
it should have stayed                                                       self  

            ii  

Why?  

a question that keeps on
giving up. i still stitch with
blood on my latex fingers.  

Why?  

did your spine hurt pulled 
to pieces? i should’ve pressed
harder. i was too kind.  

Why?  

how long is algor mortis
for a translucent
bean-sized mouse?  

Why?  

you’re bent like a question
mark with your greening
liver forming the dot.  

Why?  

i speak the word
until it loses
its meaning.  

            iii  

at home 
my mother’s voice
was already waiting  

she held her grief in words made
sharp by repetition  

你连名字都没给它                                                                     you didn’t even name her 
你连一炷香都不烧                                                                          you didn’t burn incense for her 
你连看都没多看一眼                                                                         you turned your head after  
                                                                                                                 you cut hers off  
                                                                                                   & never looked back  

                                                 iv  

& no one knew what I was missing
when your freshly-peeled gut tipped
toward the tray & I held my clipboard
steady against the seeing. After the dissection
I still carried enough silence in my throat
to build a morgue & call it my laboratory
call it the reason I wrote in sterile notation
when she told me I should have brought
something a cloth a word at least my own hands
But I only had the gloves.  

I didn’t speak.
The light above buzzed evenly. 
There were five more mice to go.  

                 v  

                what we plant in the soil of contemplation
                            we shall reap in the harvest of action  
                                      — Meister Eckheart  

So maybe I belong to the universe of unspoken
apologies         where no candles burn for ceremony
no rites to mark the passage        no rakish laughter 
to lighten what weighs down the table   just your body 
buried under ice   like a seed waiting for spring   that 
will never come   still humming with the roundabout
noise of what we do for knowledge     what we sacrifice 
for understanding      & I am left wondering if the harvest
was worth the planting if the wisdom was worth
the silence between us            this terrible flowering of regret.  

the buzzworm 
does not weep
it tunnels forward
it evolves   

About Rachel Fan

Rachel Fan is a 17-year-old poet from Shanghai and Connecticut. When not filling notebooks with verse or daydreaming about the cosmos between bedroom walls, she can be found contemplating the poetic potential of her concerningly overweight cat, debating metaphors with her brother, or explaining to her loving family why she needs to keep that tenth unfinished poem about dandelions.