A. Nguyen | My Site

[for my friend Cain, who was doomed to walk on God’s bad leg for too long]

summer was chewing

on your grandfather’s wooden leg

reverberating in your

kneecap and ankle

the splinter of oak-elder

digging deep

dipping

with every step and

the smouldering

sultry air, settling

had no hesitation in

falling fast

and sticking

around till night has gone

long, longly, longingly

day got gone

and

gone gray

and walking home was

a task

the heat made unbearable

and funnily enough

the task was impossible

in any case

for you had nowhere

to go

and no-one waiting

around the corner

when walking in

saying

welcome back

or

i missed you

or

home already?

or

oh hey did you grab groceries on the way?

or

sorry food will still take a while

or

hush, the baby is asleep

or whatever it is

those people say

in the stories

you used to make up, dragging

your way home

taking as long as you could

which was never

as long as you needed

and you’d crawl to that house

sunburnt and thirst-borne and limping

shifting the weight off your

grandpa’s bad leg

and the belly of the

beast

of summer

was so much more

welcoming than

anyplace else

i wish i had known

you

then

wish i had known

anything and

everything

i wish you had told me

and that you

didn’t insist on

heading to the doctor’s

alone

sitting in the waiting

room

with that lame leg

lagging

and i wish

i could take this from you

the acceptance

of

the abuse

but what do we do but

leave it be

and stumble our way

homewards

where a place awaits

we can sit at

and stare

and i wish i could

put my teeth to

the bone

bearing your weight

of walk

of wanderlust

and suck out the venom

and spit

and nothing would hurt anymore

but my burning

tongue

and lips

contorted to a smile

and i’d be happy

to be sad for you

if you just let me

but you won’t let it

be

and the doctor shook his

head

as you shook his

hand

and walked

away

a way

way too far

as i wait with my

hand on the jamb

and

my fist in my

mouth

and it’s the end of july

where nothing

has shape anymore

or colour

and i remember that once

you told me about

your brother

and how every time

you buy us food

you buy

his favourite

and we let it mold in

the fridge

because

it makes you gag

and makes me sick

and you buy it

always

and it is muscle memory

in that flesh peg leg

of yours

and left is only

what we can scrape together

from crumpled bills

and uncut hair

and eyes that never close

at night

because we do not

want to

see those things again

yesterday the

mailman came with a

package for you

and the syllables were chewed up

in my mouth

and stung sour

like bile rising

against my palate

and he said your name

and i wanted to sob

and i don’t know what that means

but you were named

after the blood that was shed

which was named after your

father’s father

and your brother’s tongue

velvet

is wrapped around

the calling

the yelling

the murmuring

the sound

for whoever could bear a name better

than someone dead

so the mailman read aloud

the name on

the label on

the cardboard

and it sounded

like the byline of a

gravestone

movie credits

and i said

not home

and he looked at me

and asked

who i am to you

and i shook my head

and shook the package from

his grip

and signed

and sighed

and

closed the door

but it was closed

already

well

it’s funny how

in another life

we could be family

we could have family

and this house could

be home

to two or three

children

who can run in the garden

and skin their knees

and still they would be

good legs

and good kids

and it would be

a

good home

right?

even if there is

nothing left

but the ache in your

tendons

full of memory

of your older brother

who you are now

older than

and why can’t you just

let me carry you

the rest of the way

and let me

buy the groceries

and get it right

when nothing is left?

and why won’t you

just

let me sit next to you

in the waiting room

and cry over

the synopsis

and the pamphlets

and the prognosis

and all the medical terms

i have to

familiarise myself with

in order to understand

but

i get it

already

i’ve got you

already

and why can’t you just

leave that be

and let me

be?

summer is teething

fresh and newborn

putting its gums to your

old leg

and the year is younger

and so are we

and the cycle is repeated

evernew

even if

summer isn’t the same

but home is home

and you shrug

and

i remain here to say

it’s been a while

or

i’ve stayed up waiting for you

or

was it a nice holiday?

or

did you have fun?

or

i prepared a meal for us

or

there’s leftovers in the fridge, i can warm them up

or

i made your favourite

or

the kids are in the backyard if you want to say hello

but all you have

in your backyard

is your brother’s tombstone

and

footprints

and all you have

in your hands

is a garden of

feardom and remembrance

a garden

of Eden or

Gethsemane

an olive grove

of blood-sweat and betrayal

and brotherhood

and gentle kisses that

hurt more than any

punch could

and all i have

is the pain

in your leg

as it crosses over

the threshold

of your namesake

and my heart

you know

i was born in winter

and i can remember

the solstice and

flame

and when i first

saw your face

etched into the snow

where you had stumbled

and the leg had given in

and you were lying

in the grime for

an hour or two

and a lifetime

of being blue and bruised and bawling

soundless

and i picked up your pieces

and your crutches

and scarf

and i said

there’s a kettle at home

and

i’m sorry

and

i’m sure we’ll survive

my august child

and here’s to the puddles

of old snow

and

your grandfather’s lost leg

amputated

after the war

and it was funny

how the leg got gone

and there was still an aching leg

left

despite the blaring absence

and there was still an aching home

left

right there

despite its blaring absence

and i got your favourite

flowers

for the cemetery visit

where we’ll walk

despite the two twin bus stops

we could use as

entrance and exit

but you like

the distance

and you like the reminder

of how far away it all is

and you like the reminder

of the bad leg

crumbling and crying out

and buckling

and i am your crutch

at your right

and i’ve got you

and i can hold both you

and the flowers

and if something gets

crushed a little

and wilts

then that’s just how we shall

leave it be

in the meantime

summer is

humming us to sleep

and my concussed head

scarred backwards and inside out

rests on your

heaving chest

and you are freezing

beneath the blankets beneath blankets

and shivering

when i put my teeth to

a word

and i say

i love you

like in the stories

and the ambulance

the sirens

sing in the distance

and i say

honey, we’ve got to close the window

before the insects come

swarming in

and i say

good night

and i say

i’m glad you came home

and i am glad we’re

coming home

slowly

and the alarms blare

with blinking lights

bruise-blue-bawling

despite the blaring absence

of a bad leg

and i pull the duvet over your

eyes

so you won’t have to see

all those things again

and i’ve brought your favourite

which is a hand

cupping your jaw

right where the words

threaten to bleed

out

and the kids are sleeping

in their beds

safely

and i’ve tucked them in

and they aren’t dreaming of

the garden, i promise

and tomorrow we can

take a bus to

nowhere

and leave this behind

and it’s almost autumn

where i’ll take

the fall

and it’s almost

good

and that is

good enough

for now

and

i whisper your brother’s name

in the night

against your ribs

and we

let it be

we can

let it be

and if there’s nothing alright

left here

then we can make it all

right

someplace else

and i can grow a tree

and fell it

somewhere out there

and make you

a new leg of ebony

and carve it out

while you sleep

and leave it

at the graveyard

behind the new house

and nothing has to get gone

when nothing remains anyway

and i will

be there

and

i’ve got you

and i love you

which is

not good enough

but almost

and we can

leave it

at that

forever

for now.

here’s where i start

you’re a ghosting shadow waiting for the reappearance of

a body – a boy

something found dead found again

amongst the living

grieving

i need to keep my girlhood palatable

clean-cut and straight-stitched

suddenly the bottom of my being is

sullied by tar-stained hands

i have nothing more to give, Lazarus

what more do you ask of me?

there’s nothing left –

yet you keep looking

your hand of hylozoism moves in knowing

it hurts everything it touches

everything alive, alive, alive

then where is he?

brotherhood stained your shoulder blades blistered

i want to kiss the soft of your eyelids rotten

let the red of your tongue burn to crisps

it’s enough to be alive,

but where’s the joy in it?

where do i find what i found lost –

that be the begging to survive

the want to stay

i only long to carve the form of your teeth into the linoleum

i want to remember the shape of it all

before the blood made it unrecognisable

i can identify the creases of your palm

without looking

solely by the crosses i can trace

into skin, indefinitely

imagine how your brother would look with his face

wrinkled and aged and loose

imagine how your brother would look had he lived

imagine how your brother would look had he left

in time

will you find him again, in all that chaos?

do you intend to?

being a woman came to me similarly as being brave did:

an act of proving myself –

and never a choice

here’s the part where i upset you:

here’s the part where you get sick

of how immature i am

and how i haven’t grown since i was twelve

and how i care for my stuffed animals

with the hands of a child

unwilling to let go

now go back to the beginning and realise

my girlhood will give you food poisoning

my skin tastes of sun-dried innocence

peppered with dots of hunger

i’ve been starving for air

i can dig graves faster than anyone else around here

can you feel my bones erode,

erased?

will you remember the sound of the cracking forever?

apple crumble

of skeleton

skin dough teeth

filling

so sweet, the baby-face of songhood

youthlessness of

my singing

the church choir swells with

terror

i am too scared to break into solo

my voice has been broken too many times

yet, do you hear the crescendo?

i hope it tastes of

hope

i hope

we remain hopeful –

we remake hopefuls

of desire – disaster

desacralisation

my hylotelephium

i do love you

i think

i believe –

but what does my belief account for?

it’s just a woman’s word against

eruptions of laughter

you say your brother believed in the hylomorphic madness of men

believed in the madness of my motherhood

now where’s the soul in the matter of error?

in the error of matter?

i think you’ve dug yourself a hole deep enough to forget who you are

by the time you reach the bottom

because the bottom of your being

is untouched –

because my touch doesn’t count

i need to keep my faithlessness digestible,

need to keep my believing edible and i

had so much more to give

so much potential which i waste as well

as time, and youth

and touches

and words

imagine how your brother would look

holding me

whilst i imagine how it is to be held

and it’s never enough to have been alive

but i’ve lost track of my breaths and heartbeats

and sometimes when i forget the body can die

i remember your brother’s blood between my teeth

where i worry my tongue sore on the cliff edge of an incisor

and here’s the part where i am upset

and for once i get to be

and from the bottom of my being

to the bottom of my heart

i want to love you right

but i never will.

i never need you to

say anything

i know already the words flapping their wings

awaiting

and i know the silence, awailing, aglow

and in the deep night

when the ships are sailing, dragging their smoke-trails,

i draw a phrase, fighting the weight of my eyelids,

into the palm of your quiet hand

with the tip of my pointer

and i write

whatever secret it is

you need to know the most

so in the morning i walk down

to the pier

and watch the boats

at the dock, in the blue, a-glistening

and brought up and down, swinging, by the blunted waves

and i watch

the boys drag the rope in

i watch the anchored giant in the east

of the bay

and the lighthouse asleep, a-soundly –

in defiance of the day,

in disaccord with us

diurnals

on the streets –

waiting for the vespertine swarm of ferries

to ring in alarm of

the time to shrug off slumber

and i fill my basket

and i walk with sandaled feet

and my dress swaying slightly with the salt-air-tongued breeze

licking at my silhouette

all while

i can feel the lightweight of your rest

all the way from here

and i hope you catch enough shuteye

for the shift to pass strainlessly

for the work to be done in good grace

as you lead the ships home

skunking with smog and tar-ravens shooting up-sky from

the funnels

skulking and shirking the human duty

to be adrift in dreams at night

and both you and the sailors

are brothers of the blood of

labouring in the lightless hours

only illuminated by one pirouetting tunnel of rays, reaching

towards the liquid mirror of firmament, dark,

reaching

from our lighthouse

towering atop the scape of

our hometown

where you and i have lived

and died

many-a years

together

back home i come

with fresh bread and vegetables

and the fish the fellow men and women pulled in

from the depths

watching them, wet, gasp and twitch with life

and then shiver to death

already only a corpse

showcased at the market for only

a small amount of coins

so back home i am

and i can make us a stew

and cry over

the killing

and you can row yourself in, stumbling, from the unmade bed

to the lonely waters of the kitchen

to right behind me by the stove

and make your jokes about how my tears will

oversalt the meal

and i laugh, choked up and

scold you

for being awake too early

and it is not

late enough for you to be up

and i’ll make you breakfast

at sundown

and let you take your time getting dressed

and washed up

and pretend i cannot hear you crying

behind the closed door

and i know you pretend with me

for we have always done this

together

there’s much fog

tonight

and many-a thoughts

and i am half-asleep again

murmuring apologies

i cannot put down

and i trace another sentence

into your still palm

and say that

we’ll be alright

one too many times

for it to be believable

and your gaze is stuck

where mine cannot reach

so i sink into the pillow and blankets

alone

and try to recall

if i have any secrets left

and then before i know

it is another one of those days

where i clean the landings of

seaweed

and feel the exhaustion in my limbs

and try to blame it on age

and we can joke about

how we’ll be grandparents soon

cussing at the young for their manners

and walking, stick in hand and a silver watch pocketed,

pipe permanently glued to our lips

so we can leave more smoke behind

than those damned ship stacks

and we can rest our bones

at some cliff, on a bench

watching a long-spined tanker swim in with our hair grey

and skin wrinkled wildly

and we laugh

in spite of knowing we cannot

be grandparents when i won’t

ever bear you children

nor will we grow old

together, will we?

but still i laugh

with the muscle memory of seaweed scraps

pulled by my tired hands

and the muscle memory of moving to leave

but needing to stay

you told me the story only once

and still i remember every bit

told me about how your father was a

lighthouse keeper

and so was his father

and so was his

and how you come from a long line of people

who only ever knew the sound of the ocean

and the song of the sirens

even when it drove all of them

mad

and hollow

and i come from a long line of women

who forgive

them for it

and you keep the glass of the

lantern

clean and polished

and keep your hands open

for me to write in

you keep your hands open

and empty

and un-holding

there’s a storm tonight

a thunder-and-lightning-and-rain one

and a ruthless tide

so loud i cannot sleep

through the almost-there sound of a crew of men drowning

and i remember my father

was a fisherman

i remember my father

was

and try to stop

remembering

and instead try to find

new secrets to

leave in your palm

and i cannot stop crying

until i stop crying.

some dead thing

washed up on the shore today

fallen in on itself

and barely a carcass anymore

more like an

almost-forgotten memory of a body

with too many indents of

nautical handprints on it

to be recognisable

and you say it may be

a shark

or a whale

or some poor species

never having been discovered before, unknown and unnamed

the last of its kind

and the end of its kind

and i look for a moment too long

and i say it may be

my father

but we’ll never know

if

among the many handprints

there may be one the shape of

mine

sometimes i wake

with the traces of the dream

where you walk into

the water

and never look back

and like a ship wreck

at the bottom

you don’t resurface

and it’d be like you were never there

but only almost

for i will know the memory of your palm

in the tip of my index finger

writing words

and i will have the

empty side of the bed

and the coat on the hook by the

door

and i’ll have an entire lighthouse

and an entire town

and an entire sea

to remind me of you

and we grew up here

we have lived here

and i know the dream isn’t real

for even if you walked

into the water

and walked to the point of no return

you would be

looking back

so i write

another secret into your palm

right now

as the night is nearly ending

and you nearly

ought to go to sleep

and i nearly ought to wake and rise

and i write the secret

in the shape of my father’s last words

and i write the secret

about the dream you

must be having

where i take the next steamer and never

look back

and i write the secret

in the cursive rot

of the dead thing

washed up on the shore

and i write each outline

of my footsteps in the sand

on the beach where i first

met you

and i keep writing

until you lift your hand to

my face

and i am awake

and you are asleep

and it is time for me

to keep living my life

and dying the death

of the lighthouse keeper’s

love.

A BROTHER'S LAMENT AND LEGFULESSNESS

OF GRAVEDIGGERS AND BEGGARS

THE LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER'S LOVE

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