Time is a Mother

by Ocean Vuong

How else do we return to ourselves but to fold The page so it points to the good part

I thought the fall would kill me but it only made me real

Oh no. The sadness is intensifying. How rude.

I know. I know the room you’ve been crying in is called America. I know the door is not invented yet.

Because what I did with my one short beautiful life— was lose it on a winning streak.