I listened to birdsongs from my bed,
swimming out from a cloud of foam and *****,
and peeled back the flattened hair against my cheek.
Outside there was a cacophony of light:
illuminated leaves, the glimmer of pollen lazily drifting,
my sister’s hair, a reflecting pool of black, catching dust in the wind.

Last night I cried myself awake and fell into a bottle,
shoving my red mouth full of sleep and trying to find a path away
from where I had left my mother’s yelling
and my father’s knuckles against the bedroom door.

After it had quieted, I circled aimlessly around the house,
dodging the skittering shadows of insects
and barbed wire slinky ringlets.
Toys left askew mobilizing in a thundering sea,
my arms like anchors, me, the ship adrift.

In the last hour of the night I closed my eyes and traced
all the spots and veins, a webbing of purple and orange.
Wondering what my grandfathers’ felt as the last ounce of them slipped out at Buôn Ma Thuột,
asking their ghosts to hold me together,
my breath in shredded ribbons,
my soul whisked away.