Sunny Vuong
insects & windows into the future
i want to ask the woman i will be in five years if she managed to be brave, / or at least
hold her hand / as if to say, look, / if no one else forgives you for failing to do so, / then i
will still wait. / i would draw up the paintings of the yellow-bellied crickets i used to
collect in the spring, / when the soil of my neighborhood’s garden was rainwater-damp and / i
marvelled at how brave they were to sing. / hold them to her as if to say, look, / they think
they are flying. / if no one else lets you believe this, / then i will still keep them, / then i
will never fault them, / only wish i could, too, / and i wonder if she would stand steel-faced, her mouth
pressed into a disbelieving line, / as if to ask, why, / why didn’t you? / in the time between you and me,
i ask, / why couldn’t you? / i remember it all, but i remember this most: / you never let the crickets go,
and then the story shifts, mostly because / she’s calling me a hypocrite. / i had said before that i would
hold her hand, / and this wasn’t a lie: / i know that the woman i will be in five years needs it most, so /
i wonder if she’d let me hold her in my arms and / ask her what else she remembers, / ask her if she
remembers how my mother held me the way one would a ladybug, / clasped so tightly as if to say, look,
my lucky girl, i could never let you go, / as if to say, / i love you baby, as if to / say, i’m sorry, baby, / as
if to say, / say it, / say that i was the one that split you open / and demanded that you be brave, / and
i’ll ask her if she remembers how my father wanted a son and / how i looked to him, pinched dragonfly
wings between my fingers / as if to say, look, / i am a man, / i am a man, / i traced the shape of your
feet, / and i did as you did. / and he turned away from me as if to say, look, / all you did was leave.
and i wonder if she would remember that. / how hard i tried to be brave, / how often i told myself i
could make it to the next week so long as i sang like / the crickets and said i was flying instead of falling,
/ falling as if to say, look, / there’s a terminal velocity to fear. / and i wonder if she would remember
that i am just a girl and she is / still something like one, too, / so how can she fault me for what i never
did? / how can she blame me when i’m the one / that forgives her for the very same, how can she? / in
the time between me and her, i ask, / when did you become so unapologetic? / when did you stop
believing you could fly, / when did you start feeling angry at me for it, when did you remember the /
worst without me having to tell you? / and i wonder if she would stay quiet. / not answer, but hold up
cricket legs, / torn from their bodies, / as if to ask, look, / how could i, when you never tried?
hold her hand / as if to say, look, / if no one else forgives you for failing to do so, / then i
will still wait. / i would draw up the paintings of the yellow-bellied crickets i used to
collect in the spring, / when the soil of my neighborhood’s garden was rainwater-damp and / i
marvelled at how brave they were to sing. / hold them to her as if to say, look, / they think
they are flying. / if no one else lets you believe this, / then i will still keep them, / then i
will never fault them, / only wish i could, too, / and i wonder if she would stand steel-faced, her mouth
pressed into a disbelieving line, / as if to ask, why, / why didn’t you? / in the time between you and me,
i ask, / why couldn’t you? / i remember it all, but i remember this most: / you never let the crickets go,
and then the story shifts, mostly because / she’s calling me a hypocrite. / i had said before that i would
hold her hand, / and this wasn’t a lie: / i know that the woman i will be in five years needs it most, so /
i wonder if she’d let me hold her in my arms and / ask her what else she remembers, / ask her if she
remembers how my mother held me the way one would a ladybug, / clasped so tightly as if to say, look,
my lucky girl, i could never let you go, / as if to say, / i love you baby, as if to / say, i’m sorry, baby, / as
if to say, / say it, / say that i was the one that split you open / and demanded that you be brave, / and
i’ll ask her if she remembers how my father wanted a son and / how i looked to him, pinched dragonfly
wings between my fingers / as if to say, look, / i am a man, / i am a man, / i traced the shape of your
feet, / and i did as you did. / and he turned away from me as if to say, look, / all you did was leave.
and i wonder if she would remember that. / how hard i tried to be brave, / how often i told myself i
could make it to the next week so long as i sang like / the crickets and said i was flying instead of falling,
/ falling as if to say, look, / there’s a terminal velocity to fear. / and i wonder if she would remember
that i am just a girl and she is / still something like one, too, / so how can she fault me for what i never
did? / how can she blame me when i’m the one / that forgives her for the very same, how can she? / in
the time between me and her, i ask, / when did you become so unapologetic? / when did you stop
believing you could fly, / when did you start feeling angry at me for it, when did you remember the /
worst without me having to tell you? / and i wonder if she would stay quiet. / not answer, but hold up
cricket legs, / torn from their bodies, / as if to ask, look, / how could i, when you never tried?
Biography
|
Sunny Vuong (she/her) is a second generation Vietnamese-American writer, and founding EIC of Interstellar Literary Review. Her work is featured in perhappened mag, FEED Lit, and Eunoia Review, among others. Find her on Twitter @sunnyvwrites."
|
