By Ocean Vuong

DetoNation

Theres a joke that ends with—huh？1

Its the bomb saying here is your father.

Now here is your father inside

your lungs. Look how lighter

the earth is—afterward.

To even write the word father

is to carve a portion of the day

out of a bomb-bright page2.

Theres enough light to drown in

but never enough to enter the bones

& stay. Dont stay here， he said， my boy

broken by the names of flowers. Dont cry

anymore. So I ran into the night.

The night： my shadow growing

toward my father.

有个笑话结尾是——嗯？

这是炸弹在说：“你的父亲在这里。”

刹那间，你的父亲

在你的肺里。瞧，大地

何等轻盈——在这之后

仅仅写下“父亲”二字

就好似在“爆炸白”的纸页上

雕刻一份日光。

光线足以将你沉溺。

却不足以渗入骨髓。

“别待在这，”父亲说，“我的孩子，

花的名字让你心碎。别哭。”

我奔向黑夜。

黑夜：我的身影朝向父亲

延伸。