ears backs with bullet holes. Weeks earlier, Id been in the library. I looked at you hard, the way I had learned, by then, to look into the eyes of my bullies. I imagined that the doctor was dreaming of springtime. If we are lucky, something is passed on, another alphabet written in the blood, sinew, neuron, and hippocampus; ancestors charging their kin with the silent propulsion to fly south, to turn toward the place in the narrative no one was meant to outlast. I picked it because the American flag was one of the few symbols I recognized. I imagine them flying out from the blazed blasts unscathed, their tiny black-and-red wings flickering like charred debris, so that, looking up, you can no longer fathom the explosion they came from, only a family of butterflies floating in clean, cool air, their wings finally.
Essay on Craft by Ocean Vuong Poetry Magazine
But for me, as.S.L. The first time you hit me, I must have been four. Its right here, I said, pointing to my poem pinched between his fingers. Its ribs are just like a persons after theyre burned. Ill get you McDonalds. The poems craft an intimacy with the readers body that sustains the more abstract language and content. Authors have been pondering the relationship between words and bodies for as long as theyve been pondering craft at all. But hes got the edge and punchy language of Plath, like this from Queen Under the Hill: White mouth/ sticking out like a fist.
Ocean vuong essay