after ocean vuong’s notebook fragments
april. opening day a disappointment, madness-slicked
skies & all my spare parts still attached.
father, I met a man, a real one, at the ball game & didn’t
burn.
2:28 a.m. — woke from a dream where boy becomes fire &
streaks around the diamond, unhinged. the air hungered cackling,
ready to swallow me whole.
did I say me? I only meant —
never mind.
12:05a.m. — spent the night retconning my own childhood —
sunday afternoons at the ballpark, the anthem &
the 7th inning stretch, strangers swaying to the same music,
then the El on the way home & your voice —
father, forgive me.
you said that to me in a dream.
Not you. My vision of you.
today, this body ceaselessly angered, spittle thick
on the tongue. tasteless girlhood all around.
(You called me Son)
note to self: a panic attack feels like a fastball. up & in.
5:13 a.m. — couldn’t sleep. took a bus down to the sandlot,
& broke three ribs
diving into dirt, imagining water
or maybe drowning.
(came up with the ball though. worth it or not?)
hm. cracking open the chest &
draining the flesh sounds so much like
coming home.
never mind.
note to self: a gay baseball player invented the high five. thus queering
america’s national sport. thus touching is legacy. thus:
why won’t you touch me?
maybe no one is willing to hold
these transmuted hands.
worth it or not?
11:24 p.m. — team won! I want to splatter myself
all over the field in celebration.
11: 25 p.m. — you call me the wrong name again.
concrete down the throat.
Goddamn, dad.
“God-damned.”
maybe it was the right one all along.
