By Ocean Vuong
There’s a joke that ends with — huh?
It’s the bomb saying here is your father.
Now here is your father inside
your lungs. Look how lighter
the earth is — afterward.
To even write the word father
is to carve a portion of the day
out of a bomb-bright page.
There’s enough light to drown in
but never enough to enter the bones
& stay. Don’t stay here, he said, my boy
broken by the names of flowers. Don’t cry
anymore. So I ran into the night.
The night: my shadow growing
toward my father.
Source: Poetry (February 2014)
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on a darkened map
no shores now
to arrive — or
no wind but
this waiting which
as if the seconds
could be entered
& never left
toy boat — oarless
a green lamp
toy leaf dropped
from a toy tree
as if the sp-
thinning above you
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