Brown Rivers

By | 1 June 2022

I observe the brown rivers in your fingers as you highlight your favourite lines in my poetry

I observe your head, it’s a little bit tilted, as you take pictures of the rusty bones
of Long Biên Bridge
no luck finding our names

I observe your snores when everything’s dark and they are like soap bubbles:
small, spherical, and see-through

I observe the warmer, concave part on your back when we have sex
it’s salty
and my broad face can fit in there

I observe things that can stay when your parents are visiting
since they are yours-passing
(mainly they are books and books and more books
all with guilt-free covers)

and my clothes, all under your bed
walled-in by the folding table

(one time you called in horror:
“Shoes, you forgot your shoes.”

Stupid shoes.
Know your place, stupid shoes.

I observe the remains of the days
(it’s three days after another
of my birthday and soon
you have to go:
nobody wants to be here in 2019
time, with no sign of a second coming, slipped by)

I observe how I start calling you “Kazuo Ishiguro” in my head
my little Japanese boy
my gentle Chindo man

I observe you in our favourite bookstore, post-restroom, and it’s as if
I already need the telescope
to just have the idea. of witnessing you

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