poetry Archives | Page 3 of 63

It wasn’t easy, but six months on, I can safely say that I can now think of my father without the tears rolling uncontrollably.

The only solution to the dilemma of mortality, that I have been able to figure out, is to try to sow love and kindness whenever possible.

The door is maybe locked and he is eight. She is waking him up in a different room in the same house, is saying Come to bed, I’m lonely.

My mother crying at the sound of laughter, at the sound of someone trying to open the back door, and I have learned not to ask.

My grandmother’s words suddenly come to mind from 40 years ago, telling me not to squirrel away new clothes for special occasions.

400,000 Vietnamese people died at sea trying to escape their homeland. My dad was fortunate to have made it safely to the refugee camps.

Remember being gripped by the riptide, the sudden panic when it seemed Neptune’s net was mightier than your mortal self, then the sharp realization.

I wasn’t born for perfection, submission, or suppression. I wasn’t born for fear and confusion. I was born for love. I want to go there.

Our pasts refused to reconcile with any version of the future, and this room and these bloodstains and whatever news of your lover.

I hold the record now, with hands wrinkled from work and children and age, living a life in which you play no part. I hear the static crackle.