Sunday, January 30
THE BULL
He stood alone in my backyard, so dark
the night purpled around him.
I had no choice. I opened the door
& stepped out. Wind
in the branches. He watched me—
his eyes kerosene blue.
What do you want, I asked, forgetting I had
no language. He kept breathing,
to stay alive. But I was a boy
then. Which meant I was a murderer
of my childhood. & like all murderers, my god
was stillness. My god, he was still
there. He looked like something prayed for
by a priest with no mouth. The green-blue lamp
swirled in its socket. I didn’t
want him. I didn’t want him
to be beautiful—but needed beauty
to be more than hurt gentle
enough to hold. So I
reached for him. I reached—not the bull
but the depth. Not an answer but
an entrance the shape of
an animal. Like me. (Ocean Vuong)