Ocean Vuong

To be or not to be. That is the question. A question, yes, but not a choice.

I kneel beside him to see how far

I might sink. Do you know who I am,

Ba? But the answer never comes. The answer

is the bullet hole in his back, brimming

with seawater. He is so still I think

he could be anyone’s father

I turn him

over. To face it. The cathedral

in his sea-black eyes. The face

not mine—but one I will wear

to kiss all my lovers good-night:

the way I seal my father’s lips

with my own & begin

the faithful work of drowning.

He moves like any

other fracture, revealing the briefest doors. The dress

petaling off him like the skin

of an apple. As if their swords

aren’t sharpening

inside him. This horse with its human

face. This belly full of blades

& brutes. As if dancing could stop the heart

of his murderer from beating

between his ribs.

I open my eyes. His face
between my hands, wet as a cut. If we make it to shore, he says, I will name our son after this water. I will learn to love a monster.

He laughs but his eyes betray him. He laughs despite knowing he has ruined every beautiful thing just to prove beauty cannot change him.

Everyone’s shouting or singing and he can’t tell whether the song is for him—or the burning rooms he mistook for childhood.

Don’t you know? A mother’s love

neglects pride

the way fire

neglects the cries

of what it burns.

Don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here? I was still here once.

Maybe we pray on our knees because god

only listens when we’re this close

to the devil.