by Henry Wei Leung
Who can believe in words wrested free of things?
Isn’t he a fool who tries writing you to freedom?
Your name, once, for me, inked on your palm;
That morning, a fist closing, opening, a free end.
Sometimes closeness is the bridge unhinging.
Salmon shudder into wild nets, widely, freely.
I never meant to be this kind of ghost, holding,
Out of sequence, your secret freedoms.
The truth is like time: a zone alive in the body—
And words: as light as death, too feathered, too free.
Good monster of the lungs, lead the way…
Electric bare forest freer than fear’s fiefdom…
* You are a full silence I cannot redeem. You need
No breath from me, not on your life. Not for your freedom.