Vietnam

white is swallowed by the air of the day

—César Vallejo

Father walks the hallway, shorter than me

for the first time,

twisting his torso

to speak like an old friend to each door, each

an explanation I have starved out.

The balm of the room softens when he enters,

the lantern’s nickel of flame

flinches

behind his acrid breath.

I’ve been straining to hear

the ice-clack

as Oakland Bay lowers its sheet onto the mudflats.

I will learn to hold dying like that breath.

Hoarfrost thaws in the driveway.

I dream the horses have returned from downstream.