Poem for Hoa Nguyen
Joshua Marie Wilkinson

It follows from an envelope

locked latch & reading


in the tub while

you’re scubbing somebody’s

spidery hair.


Is it a poem if it’s

all sleepy & has

crooked teeth—


if the gunpowder is

buttoned to a longing

for Texas autumn?


Little moviehouse for

we who stick to everything

& quotient & spirit &

drawbridges sharking the traffic.


I’m on the phone all

about this—I’m yellow

in the green light

& hoping the drunk stories

stay well enough inside


mesquito swamp tripping & the nets

foil good song & away into

the city narrowing.