Diana Khoi Nguyen
What can you tell a man at the margins?
His bible bears his name.
What can you tell a man?
You are one mind in the commune of one
dropping his white robe for shredding.
A womb-born creature that must fly
as if frightened by its body.
Where did you go?
With the woman in the elevator
holding a cricket cage.
What did you collect?
A beak peaking through a drum.
Ossicles, old echoer. A stirrup is
the smallest bone.
What did it feel like?
Like this: / / //// / / /// // / / / // /
/ / / // // / / / / / / / /
/// / / / / / / / / / // / / / / // / /
And you collected shadows?
In the house my father tried to build.
I'd grown up seeing America disarming others
to protect itself.
A sort of guardianship?
The goose has always been
a goose. It has never been a man
whose fathers lie like mountain-ruins
within him.
Do they give you grief?
Pain outlives its vehicle. Illness comes
like a veil in the attic cordoning off tender
of the mind.
Did you cure yourself?
America now arming itself. My wounds
spoke to me. They said:
“Kneel down beside your brothers on the floor.”
And?
And bray.