Monday, December 9, 2013

thanksgiving, 2006.

 
Brooklyn’s too cold tonight
& all my friends are three years away.
My mother said I could be anything
I wanted—but I chose to live.

 On the stoop of an old brownstone,
a cigarette flares, then fades.
I walk towards it: a razor
sharpened with silence.
A jawline etched in smoke.
The mouth where I’ll be made
new again. Stranger, palpable
echo, here is my hand, filled
with blood thin as a widow’s
tears. I am ready. I am ready
to be every animal
you leave behind.
 
—Ocean Vuong

1 comment:

helen said...

but everything changes with time, nothing is as it was. sending good vibes and hugs your way, x