White Whale Review: An Online Literary Magazine Untitled Document
Willie Lin
Willie Lin lives and works in Chicago, IL. She's the author of the chapbook Instructions for Folding and her poems have appeared in Bone Bouquet, Washington Square Review, and other journals.
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Willie Lin




A Fox once saw a Crow fly across a sky white as a mirror with a piece of meat in its beak and settle on a branch. “That’s for me, as I am a Fox,” said Master Fox, and he followed the Crow’s path beneath. “How bright your eye, Mistress Crow,” he cried up. “Gemlike. Light lifts your face from the murk of animals. I feel your voice must be like water pouring or a filigree of lace. Let me hear one song from you that I may greet you as Queen of Birds.” The Crow lifted her head, but the moment she opened her mouth the meat fell, snapped up by the Fox. “That will do,” said he. “That was all I wanted. In exchange, I will give you a piece of advice.”


In this story, wisdom is manifested as the ability to deceive.

Willie Lin

Have You Ever Wished for a Man



to disappear. I carried the child

with one hand, surprised by

my strength. I thought if I could

preserve one part of my being

it must be the hands. It must

be these. A sidewinder knock

delivered by one, to send you away,

ahead of your body. To turn your neck,

stiff as light looks when it comes

through a high window. Truly

we are sometimes capable of the most

innocent accidents, like when

a wind showered my vision with

cherry blossoms. Flurries in my hair,

my blouse, and I felt almost

a purpose, not improvising while

others performed to a script. The way

hands must feel when lifting

a pail of water, or poised like barges

at sea, the farness that is not the here-

after but says, you, push harder.

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