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Brooklyn está muy frío esta noche
y todos mis amigos están a tres años de distancia.
Mi madre dijo que podría ser cualquier cosa
que quisiera –pero yo escogí vivir.
En las escaleras de un viejo edificio
brilla un cigarro, luego se desvanece.
Camino hacia él: una navaja
afilada de silencio.
Su mentón dibujado por el humo.
La boca por donde vuelvo
a la ciudad. Extraño, palpable
eco, he aquí mi mano, llena de sangre delgada
como las lágrimas de una viuda. Estoy listo.
Estoy listo para ser todos los animales
a los que abandonas.

Ocean Vuong

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/ The TV said the planes have hit the buildings./ & I said Yes because you asked me/ to stay. Maybe we pray on our knees because god/ only listens when we’re this close/ to the devil. There is so much I want to tell you./ How my greatest accolade was to walk/ across the Brooklyn Bridge/ & not think of flight./ How we live like water: wetting/ a new tongue with no telling/ what we’ve been through. They say the sky is blue/ but I know it’s black seen through too much distance./ You will always remember what you were doing/ when it hurts the most. There is so much/ I need to tell you – but I only earned/ one life. & I took nothing. Nothing. Like a pair of teeth/ at the end. The TV kept saying The planes…/ The planes…& I stood waiting in the room/ made of broken mockingbirds. Their wings throbbing/ into four blurred walls. & you were there./ You were the window.

Ocean Voung