I came as a stranger; as a stranger now I leave. The flowers of May once
welcomed me warmly; a young girl spoke of love, her mother even of marriage.
Now all is bleak--the pathway covered with snow.
The time of departure is not mine to choose; I must find my way alone in
this darkness. With the shadow of the moon at my side, I search for traces of
wildlife in the white snow.
Why should I linger and give them reason to send me away? Let stray hounds
howl outside their master's house. Love likes to wander from one to another,
as if God willed it so. My darling, farewell.
A quiet step, a careful shutting of the door so your sleep is not disturbed,
and two words written on the gate as I leave, "Good night," to let you know I
thought of you.

to do with my mother’s

sadness, her mouth:

a pockmark on every door

that opens onto a memorial scene, 

her mouth: the beginning

of traffic. Odd to think

of it as an ugly and frequent

song on the radio,

a small bird shitting

and dying in my hands.

He is dead, she says,

over and over again,

except in Vietnamese,

which to me doesn’t sound

as tragic—a little uglier,

maybe, but less tragic,

for sure. The house phone

on her lap sings its dead

hum into the static air

of our living room. Who?

Who? I ask. I shake her

shoulders, Who?

When she finally looks

at me through the slit

of her black bangs,

she tells me about the man

she would have married

if she stayed in Vietnam,

and my posture straightens,

and my eyes roll, and I am 

relieved at the absence

of my own grief, and I hate him, 

this man, this dead man

that won’t stay gone

now that he’s gone

for good, now that he has built

this house of meat to rot

and stew on the sunniest days, 

now that he fills the marrow

in each bone of my mother’s regret. 

When she thinks of love 

either she’s a widow or divorced, 

and I believed for a while

that regret is leaving

the burning house 

empty-handed, but he is

already ash, and I tell her

she made the right choice, 

which is funny, cause I hate

my father, and often forget

that he’s still alive.