birthday dinner
       

so the night felt like ash.
      so the leaves felt like animal hide.
here, our ancestors speak to us
      through desire. here, my mother offers
me tiết canh, blood pudding, & I refuse.
      my cheeks rash-red with embarrassment,
though this was before I had
      the language of description. all I knew
was that I wanted a white lunch
      for school, my own invisibility cloak.
say soup, say stew. practice:
      Campbell's. remember: silent p.
      at home, the dining table a sheet of ice
just before it gives. my hands
      mending cracks as they form.
in my seat, I see a penumbra of light
      just beyond a silk screen & kneel
to be closer. iridescent, like the sun
      viewed through a veil of winter.
my fingers extend to touch it—no longer
      a screen, but a sharp-toothed window.
my mother is singing hymns,
      but all I hear is the sound of silos
rising around me. so I cut my hair
      & move two thousand miles away.
so I stand before god & he tells me
      I'll never leave.

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Copyright © 2021 Thomas V. Nguyen All rights reserved
from Permutations of a Self
Texas Review Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission