Vuong, "Telemachus"


Like any good son, I pull my father out
of the water, drag him by his hair
 
through white sand, his knuckles carving a trail
the waves rush in to erase. Because the city
 
beyond the shore is no longer
where we left it. Because the bombed
 
cathedral is now a cathedral
of trees. I kneel beside him to see how far
 
I might sink. Do you know who I am,
Ba? But the answer never comes. The answer
 
is the bullet hole in his back, brimming
with seawater. He is so still I think
 
he could be anyone's father, found
the way a green bottle might appear
 
at a boy's feet containing a year
he has never touched. I touch
 
his ears. No use. I turn him
over. To face it. The cathedral
 
in his sea-black eyes. The face
not mine—but one I will wear
 
to kiss all my lovers good-night:
the way I seal my father's lips
 
with my own & begin
the faithful work of drowning.
 
 
Ocean Vuong

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