By Ocean Vuong

DetoNation

Theres a joke that ends with—huh？1

Its the bomb saying here is your father.

Now here is your father inside

your lungs. Look how lighter

the earth is—afterward.

To even write the word father

is to carve a portion of the day

out of a bomb-bright page2.

Theres enough light to drown in

but never enough to enter the bones

& stay. Dont stay here， he said， my boy

broken by the names of flowers. Dont cry

anymore. So I ran into the night.

The night： my shadow growing

toward my father.

有個(gè)笑話結(jié)尾是——嗯？

這是炸彈在說：“你的父親在這里。”

剎那間，你的父親

在你的肺里。瞧，大地

何等輕盈——在這之后

僅僅寫下“父親”二字

就好似在“爆炸白”的紙頁上

雕刻一份日光。

光線足以將你沉溺。

卻不足以滲入骨髓。

“別待在這，”父親說，“我的孩子，

花的名字讓你心碎。別哭?！?/p>

我奔向黑夜。

黑夜：我的身影朝向父親

延伸。