Poem for Hoa Nguyen
Joshua Marie Wilkinson

It follows from an envelope

locked latch & reading

 

in the tub while

you’re scubbing somebody’s

spidery hair.

 

Is it a poem if it’s

all sleepy & has

crooked teeth—

 

if the gunpowder is

buttoned to a longing

for Texas autumn?

 

Little moviehouse for

we who stick to everything

& quotient & spirit &

drawbridges sharking the traffic.

 

I’m on the phone all

about this—I’m yellow

in the green light

& hoping the drunk stories

stay well enough inside

 

mesquito swamp tripping & the nets

foil good song & away into

the city narrowing.