“There’s a huge spark if you breathe it out loud.”

When she said this, I knew it had nothing to do
with getting stoned or the Vietnamese lullaby
we agreed was perfect for getting stoned.

It was about a caught breath on the gray
edge of hurricanes where a man stops
to argue with a newspaper machine.

It was the breeze from the spokes
of an ao dai girl’s bicycle as she passes,
quiet as a memory.

It was about exhaling, releasing a moment,
framed contraction of imagination and muscles,
full torso collapse into slapped-skin weariness,

and the minutes after,
when there’s more breath
against my neck and we dry and fall
asleep to a lullaby from the country
where my Father fell.