Joseph Gunho Jang

I am on the bed again

in that quiet

type of ache, serpentine

wallowing, wanting

to die. No, not quite

wanting, but rather believing

in the virtues of such

a disappearance —

emerald field and golden waters

kissing the chapped lips of mountains.

Pristine, crisp air and a single pronghorn

meeting the eyes

of a broken human

and seeing beyond that stilted

form, into the past, into a hunched,

weeping silhouette cast from yellow light

on a small boy with bad vision,

crooked teeth, and dreams

of becoming a star — a literal sphere

of plasma held together by its own

calling, invisible and aching —

that might shed light and prove

in some unspeakable manner

that life is indeed worth living.


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