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Thereís a joke that ends with ó huh?
Itís the bomb saying here is your father.

Now here is your father inside
your lungs. Look how lighter

the earth is ó afterward.
To even write the word father

is to carve a portion of the day
out of a bomb-bright page.

Thereís enough light to drown in
but never enough to enter the bones

& stay. Donít stay here, he said, my boy
broken by the names of flowers. Donít cry

anymore. So I ran into the night.
The night: my shadow growing

toward my father.

Ocean Vuong


February 2014

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