Luchang Zhu is a scientist and poet based in Ames, Iowa, where he combines a career in scientific research with a lifelong passion for literature and the creative arts. His poetry is informed by both analytical observation and emotional depth, often exploring the relationships between nature, memory, identity, and the quiet moments that shape everyday life. Drawing inspiration from the natural world as well as human resilience and curiosity, his work seeks to reveal beauty in both the ordinary and the extraordinary. Zhu’s poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Down in the Dirt, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Tap into Poetry, Poetry Pacific, and Lyrical Iowa. Whether writing from the perspective of a scientist or a poet, he brings a thoughtful, reflective voice to his work, inviting readers to see the world through a lens of wonder, precision, and compassion.
Art Museum
A six-year-old girl died
from an experimental gene therapy.
Because she was slow in language development.
Because her DNA carried a typo.
Because her parents hoped to correct it.
“Mom, I want to go home.”
She told her mother in the ICU.
She could say that.
This hurts me badly.
A biologist and a father.
One morning in an art museum—
Chicago or Houston,
I can’t recall.
But I remember a voice:
Loud, raw, labored,
like a rusted saw
cutting through an iron pole.
A young man with Down syndrome
was discussing an eighteenth-century oil painting
with museum staff
and art history enthusiasts.
They listened quietly, with full attention,
and responded with grace and scholarship,
as if it were an exchange of rare wisdom.
Like grass, bugs, birds, and trees
We are all mutants—
of a certain kind,
in this vast, precious world.
The Summer Day
Parents were napping.
Neighbors were napping.
Even the cicadas were napping
in the quiet summer noon.
In this stolen hour,
in this rented courtyard,
I sneaked a ripe tomato,
chilled in well water,
bit into its ruby flesh
and sucked its refreshing juice
into my dehydrated soul.
Juice dropped onto the dry soil
and disappeared
without a trace.
A thirsty snail clung to a mint leaf
in the garden,
helpless.
I shared a chunk of tomato flesh with it—
the size of a pinky nail to me,
the size of a mountain to the snail.
With enormous joy,
its pointy eyes waved in the air
like a conductor immersed
in Beethoven’s Pastoral.
Miraculously,
I saw its tiny mouth open and bite the tomato.
I heard the faint but clear sound of a snail
munching on a succulent meal.
Somehow,
I was king
of this micro-space,
this micro-moment.
It was summer in a small Chinese town
when I was ten.
More than thirty summers have passed.
summers in different cities,
different provinces,
different countries,
different continents.
Many summers slipped from memory,
but this one with the snail
feels like yesterday.
Christmas in Disneyland
My son spent his first Christmas in Disneyland.
How wonderful was that.
It was 2021,
when celebration was canceled by the pandemic.
It was Hong Kong,
where Disneyland had been turned into a quarantine camp.
With our four-month-old son in a basket,
my wife and I stood in line,
checked in,
sanitized,
tagged with GPS trackers,
locked inside a small room,
and learned to live like domestic animals.
For the next seven days,
Chow arrived through the window
at a set time.
Our nasal swabs were collected through the window
at a set time.
My son’s poop samples were collected through the window
at a set time.
Like the laboratory mice
I fed and studied in graduate school
to understand a disease.
Then came Christmas night.
Half awake,
maybe dreaming,
I felt something solid and heavy
pressing against the window—
solid and heavy
as a bag of ripe nectarines.
Morning revealed a Christmas basket on the sill:
honey cashews,
shortbread,
tea,
and chocolate,
with a card that read:
Merry Christmas and good health.
My son slept on,
breathing slowly
into a sweet dream.
I wondered
whether he dreamed of Santa stopping by that night,
wearing a mask
and an isolation gown.
Old Ship
An old ship slides slowly into its final port
Quiet as the breeze of May
From shore to shore
Through seventeen years of
choppy water and stormy seas
The once sleek hull
Is covered with a million barnacles
No cheers, no tears
Just a mild sunny day in May
Not that different from
Any of the seventeen Mays
On the sea
In the port
Ships are coming from
Mexico, India, the Philippines, West Africa
The breeze carries
Aromas of spices and ripe fruits
Distant sounds of singing and dancing
The old ship is empty and quiet
Just the old captain
Gazing at the sea
Trying to remember
Why he left the other shore.
The Galway Review 