Convergence
He arrives at the doorway, home again.
Blue sheets of moonlight drift over kitchen tiles.
A cup of coffee where morning left it—filmed
with cream and dust. The wooden chair
where the first song resonated
from her chest to his. The battered stove
where she waited, heating and re-heating
until sleep surrendered her hands
to the table, steam rising into silence.
In her room, the last breath lingers.
His fingers trace the items suspended
in their roles for living: a cap-less bottle
of perfume, a bookmark trapped between loss
and triumph, the photo with lip prints still fresh
on his face. Slowly, he undresses.
Clothes fall like sheets of dust. Naked,
he crawls into her bed, under her sheets, his body
pressing into her scent, vestiges of skin, hair,
all of a mother a bed will keep.
Sleep comes in the hum of that familiar tune,
the room narrowing into a chamber of flesh,
his body curling into her warmth—her womb.
Ars Poetica
When two ships emerge
from a wall of fog,
their sails lit with sheets of fire,
there will be a traveler on each deck
with the same face,
watching flames reflect
in the other’s eyes.
Because neither wants to see
the other burn, they will have placed
a wooden plank across the hulls,
a makeshift bridge.
Slowly, they will edge
toward the center,
their feet timid
as a child’s first steps.
The ships will moan and creek
beneath their fading weight.
Windows will burst
into breaths of ember,
while two hands reach out,
the horizon shortening
between their fingers.
And if they should waver,
if they should fall
before they touch,
may the sea receive them
as it does two pearls
of soft rain.
Ocean Vuong emigrated to the U.S. in 1990 from Viet Nam at the age of one. He is currently an undergraduate student at Brooklyn College, CUNY. His poems have been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and appear in Kartika Review, Asian American Poetry, Word Riot, SOFTBLOW, Mascara Review, and Cha, among others. He enjoys riding his bicycle and practicing Zen Meditation. Visit his blog for more information at www.oceanvuong.blogspot.com.
He arrives at the doorway, home again.
Blue sheets of moonlight drift over kitchen tiles.
A cup of coffee where morning left it—filmed
with cream and dust. The wooden chair
where the first song resonated
from her chest to his. The battered stove
where she waited, heating and re-heating
until sleep surrendered her hands
to the table, steam rising into silence.
In her room, the last breath lingers.
His fingers trace the items suspended
in their roles for living: a cap-less bottle
of perfume, a bookmark trapped between loss
and triumph, the photo with lip prints still fresh
on his face. Slowly, he undresses.
Clothes fall like sheets of dust. Naked,
he crawls into her bed, under her sheets, his body
pressing into her scent, vestiges of skin, hair,
all of a mother a bed will keep.
Sleep comes in the hum of that familiar tune,
the room narrowing into a chamber of flesh,
his body curling into her warmth—her womb.
Ars Poetica
When two ships emerge
from a wall of fog,
their sails lit with sheets of fire,
there will be a traveler on each deck
with the same face,
watching flames reflect
in the other’s eyes.
Because neither wants to see
the other burn, they will have placed
a wooden plank across the hulls,
a makeshift bridge.
Slowly, they will edge
toward the center,
their feet timid
as a child’s first steps.
The ships will moan and creek
beneath their fading weight.
Windows will burst
into breaths of ember,
while two hands reach out,
the horizon shortening
between their fingers.
And if they should waver,
if they should fall
before they touch,
may the sea receive them
as it does two pearls
of soft rain.
Ocean Vuong emigrated to the U.S. in 1990 from Viet Nam at the age of one. He is currently an undergraduate student at Brooklyn College, CUNY. His poems have been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and appear in Kartika Review, Asian American Poetry, Word Riot, SOFTBLOW, Mascara Review, and Cha, among others. He enjoys riding his bicycle and practicing Zen Meditation. Visit his blog for more information at www.oceanvuong.blogspot.com.
