although, not the exalted mythological
constellation
of the hunter orion, so proud
or cygnus' impressive wingspan
you are still clusters of stars.

but i am the light wondering if my
flickering
is in reality, darkness, left over.
my bright reaching everywhere and nowhere
all at once.

The dusty lampshade hung crookedly
as if peering into the next room in anticipation.
Down the hallway were three empty rooms and one wall scuffed where the remote shattered into pieces.

Above her bed used to be a dark spot where she pressed with her little finger
night after night
to quiet the breaking cups, the slamming doors, the shrill, the wordless, the maddening…

When father stopped sleeping
and mother’s slight figure disappeared completely,

She wandered into the backyard, cobblestone steps sizzling like coals in summer,
put her legs in the green pool,
that climbed with moss and grey spume, frothing,
And touched Ophelia’s reflection through the abyss.

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.

Grandma’s house was a hollow cinder block.
In the front yard stood a lone pear tree that bore blushing pink teardrops year round.
Every night magnolias bloomed like clockwork, pirouetting inside on light feet
to chase away stale sickness,
soothing us when Ông Cố barked at the rattling chain fence,
his voice walking with heavy coughs.

Even on New Year’s when we patted lipstick on our cheeks and mouths,
bright red like our silk dresses,
And danced in the cement front yard around spider web cracks.
He barked like an engine backfiring, frustrated and rusting from the inside out.
He was red too, all water and darkness.

We slept on woven mats atop concrete beds
inside a mesh shroud of Jupiter’s storm cloud.
Heat suspended over us, a bog of stagnation in the brick bathroom
breeding fish and algae, our bathwater aquarium in bloom with larvae,
mosquitoes never not pregnant and full of our blood.

Yet still we survived the nights and gathered to watch the morning sun
wide eyed, heads tucked in grandma’s soft lap,
chewing on our tear drops,
the yelling in the next room withering away.