afterthought

concerning the poet Ocean Vuong.

not of the poems specifically,

but more about the substance of his soft-

toned alto when reciting, and I thought:

I could never speak this way nor write like this,

certainly because I’m not capable, but more so

because nobody can.

nobody should. nobody would

dare to try, I thought.

Vuong was “invited” to spend

an hour alone inside Emily Dickinson’s room,

the room in Amherst where she wrote her poems

and bound them together with a common string,

in an uncommon tongue, and placed them, fold on fold

inside the chosen compartment of her dresser.

Vuong tells us of this experience, and tells us

he couldn’t bring himself to write anything during his time

in Emily's room, telling us her living presence was palpable.

instead, for his hour in paradise, he simply sat quietly, and listened

to the stillness, and to the silence of the window overlooking Amherst.

who else can grip one with that kind of mystery but Emily?

nobody can. nobody should. nobody would

dare to try, I thought.

so I’ll continue to write in my approach, fractured as it often is,

content to be a part of the existence; counting outbound

from the 3rd planet of the yellow dwarf revolving in concert

within an outer barb of the pinwheel; a pinprick of residence

in the star-glistened galactic island's community. like her.

like him. like you. like everyone. like everything.