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By Kien Lam

A crow perches inside me.


Actually, it is a whale. It is hard to tell
by touch alone. Nothing I own ever looks
me properly in the eye. Sometimes


a loud caw at dusk feels
like the largest mammal on Earth.


A deep breath out the blowhole


into my stomach. One second it swims
and the next it is a small extension
of a tree. This is a kind of beginning—


a finger puppet show. The light
dancing around my hands.


Me dancing alone on a stem.


A persimmon blooms.
A boy learns a song and plants it
in an orchard. Inside of me


the large creatures change their shapes
to fit. A blackbird. An organ.


Animals with no names. I send them off
into the world daily. Little sadness
takes flight. Love is a brave child.


These things take the shape
of their containers.


I don’t have to do anything
to hold them.


Source: Poetry (March 2019)

  • Living
  • Nature

Poet Bio

Kien Lam
Kien Lam is a Kundiman fellow and Indiana University MFA alumnus. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming from the American Poetry Review, The Rumpus, The Nation, and elsewhere. See More By This Poet

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