When you said people did you mean punish?
            When you said friend did you mean fraud?
When you said thought did you mean terror?
            When you said connection did you mean con?
When you said God did you mean greed?
                When you said faith did you mean fanatic?
When you said hope did you mean hype?
            When you said unity did you mean enmity?
When you said freedom did you mean forfeit?
            When you said law did you mean lie?
When you said truth did you mean treason?
            When you said feeling did you mean fool?
When you said together did you mean token?
            When you said desire did you mean desert?
When you said sex did you mean savagery?
            When you said need did you mean nought?
When you said blood did you mean bought?
            When you said heart did you mean hard?
When you said head did you mean hide?
            When you said health did you mean hurt?
When you said love did you mean loss?
            When you said fate did you mean fight?
When you said destiny did you mean decimate?
            When you said honor did you mean hunger?
When you said bread did you mean broke?
            When you said feast did you mean fast?
When you said first did you mean forgotten?
            When you said last did you mean least?
When you said woman did you mean wither?
            When you said man did you mean master?
When you said mother did you mean smother?
            When you said father did you mean fatal?
When you said sister did you mean surrender?
            When you said brother did you mean brutal?
When you said fellow did you mean follow?
            When you said couple did you mean capital?
When you said family did you mean failure?
            When you said mankind did you mean market?
When you said society did you mean sickness?
            When you said democracy did you mean indignity?
When you said equality did you mean empty?
            When you said politics did you mean power?
When you said left did you mean lost?
            When you said right did you mean might?
When you said republic did you mean rich?
            When you said wealthy did you mean wall?
When you said poor did you mean prison?
            When you said justice did you mean just us?
When you said immigrant did you mean enemy?
            When you said refugee did you mean refusal?
When you said earth did you mean ownership?
            When you said soil did you mean oil?
When you said community did you mean conflict?
            When you said safety did you mean suspicion?
When you said security did you mean sabotage?
            When you said army did you mean Armageddon?
When you said white did you mean welcome?
            When you said black did you mean back?
When you said yellow did you mean yield?
            When you said brown did you mean down?
When you said we did you mean war?
            When you said you did you mean useless?
When you said she did you mean suffer?
            When you said he did you mean horror?
When you said they did you mean threat?
            When you said I did you mean island?
When you said tribe did you mean trouble?
            When you said name did you mean nobody?
When you said news did you mean nonsense?
            When you said media did you mean miasma?
When you said success did you mean sucker?
            When you said fame did you mean game?
When you said ideal did you mean idol?
            When you said yesterday did you mean travesty?
When you said today did you mean doomsday?
            When you said tomorrow did you mean never?
When you said hear did you mean hush?
            When you said listen did you mean limit?
When you said write did you mean wound?
            When you said read did you mean retreat?
When you said literacy did you mean apathy?
            When you said fiction did you mean forget?
When you said poetry did you mean passivity?
            When you say art do you mean act?

California drought withering the basins,
the hills ready to ignite. Oh, stupid ways

I’ve loved and unraveled myself.
I, a parched field, and not a spit of rain.

I announced to a room of strangers,
I’ve never loved anyone more.

Now he and I no longer speak.

Outside: Manila, 40 years
after my parents’ first arrival.

I deplane where they debarked.
At customs, I am given a sheet warning of MERS—

in ’75, my parents received fishermen’s lunches,
a bottle of fish sauce. They couldn’t enter

until they were vaccinated. My mother, 22,
newly emptied of a stillborn daughter.

In Đà Nẵng, my cousin has become unrecognizable
after my four year absence. His teeth, at 21,

have begun to rot. His face swollen over.
I want to shield him from his terrible life.

Tazed at 15 by the cops until he pissed himself.
So beaten in the mental institution, that family had to

bring him home. His mother always near tears
when I ask, How are you doing?

You want to know what survivorhood looks like?
It’s not romantic. The corn drying huskless

in the front yard. The ducks chasing each other in the back.
The thick arms of a woman who will carry bricks

for the rest of her life. The plainness with which
she speaks of hardship. The bricks aren’t a metaphor

for the weight she carries. Ánh, which means light,
is sick, and cannot work,

but instead goes wandering the neighborhood,
eating other people’s food, bloating

his mother’s unpayable debts.
What pleasure can be found here,

even if the love is palpable?
My mother stopped crying years ago.

What’s the use, she says, of all this leaking.
Enough to fill a drainage ditch, a reservoir?

No, just enough to wet a pillow.
What a waste of time, me pining after

a man who no longer feels for me.
Today, I would give it up. Trade mine

for theirs. They tell me that they are not hungry.
Happy is their toil. My uncles and their

browned skins, not a pinch of fat anywhere.
They work the fields and swallow

beer after beer, getting sentimental.
Whose birds have come to roost, whose pigs in the muck?

Their dog has just birthed four new pups.
Despite ourselves, time moves on.

I walked lover’s lane with my cousin.

The heart-lights reflected on the river’s black.
The locks clustered and dangling.

I should have left our names on that bridge.
My name, the names of my family, written there.

I look for words in the dark,
silently describing to myself
the particular conditions of the weather
on the morning I saw you most recently—
the wind, its patterned disarray—
my mind elsewhere, distracted, lyrical,
while the pianist plays an encore.
Mozart was born on this day
257 years ago. All day
I have been ungenerous, resentful,
impatient. In between
movements, no applause
but the old ladies cough loudly, violently.
We cannot last forever.
I loved music before I loved books.
I loved Mozart before I loved you.