By Ethan Phan II
I. I used to be tired but now I’m comfortable. Like midnight poems and streetlight Peeking through the window Like starry lawns and moonlight Our craterous noses dipping and glistening Like metal flakes bedazzling the gray callouses of my hand Like glitter Like midnight commuter rails and the warm buzz of light Lulling you home. II. Whatever happened in that church basement Its tan walls hugging us as I pull you closer Like Manila folders We’ll never grow old. I cried that night in the living room As my dad did pushups and I Saw him dead, dying, why “Nothing lasts,” he laughed “Except gold, maybe.” III. My name is Nhật Huy Which means a beam of golden sunshine in my mother’s tongue A language laced with the sweet scent of sweaty hugs and basil My grandfather’s vision Of his refugee boy and his teen bride Of America’s dream Of me. IV. Why do I feel out of place? Maybe it’s the son who left his country to escape the gunshots Maybe it’s the woman telling him to go back Maybe it’s the broken words stumbling off my mother’s teeth Maybe it’s the glare the cashier doesn’t give her Maybe it’s me looking a little longer just to make sure Maybe it’s the slant in my eyes Accenting the way I see the world Maybe it’s the way I see the world Maybe it’s the way I see.
