Leaving house or country, a man
May have skin contact with someone
His wife never suspects, may fling
His love or a hand grenade at those
He’ll keep mostly buried under trash.
Late at night, though, he will relive
The nakedness of a lover or corpse,
As his bare foot touches his wife’s.
He will feel estranged from this trusting
Flesh next to him, for it has never
Opened up to him like that other one.
The corpse, then, is his soulmate, since
It turned itself inside out just for him,
And to reciprocate, he unzipped.
To make his wife more urgent
And truer to life, more authentic,
He may have to invert her also.
Gun always cocked, he’s turning.
Monday, December 22, 2014
- Linh Dinh
- Born in Vietnam in 1963, I came to the US in 1975, and have also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I'm the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), six of poems, All Around What Empties Out (2003), American Tatts (2005), Borderless Bodies (2006), Jam Alerts (2007), Some Kind of Cheese Orgy (2009) and A Mere Rica (2017), and a novel, Love Like Hate (2010). I've been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I'm also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Japanese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic and Finnish, and I've been invited to read in London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I've also published widely in Vietnamese.