My father changed
his name to Henry
and became King
of white people.
He pulled my spine
from my back
to prove he commanded
the holy sword.
Holy bone.
The half-corpse
of his firstborn.
I moved
as he willed. I danced.
I prostrated
myself at his feet
and said Lord.
And father. Holy
father. I rose
when he introduced
me to his partner,
an old white man
who reads books
about Buddhism.
This was the first step
towards enlightenment:
find a Vietnamese man
who has left one
body for another.
The new body a grail
for a gay immigrant
father. I am just a reminder
of the old ways. The boat
people didn’t answer
the ocean’s song
when they rowed. The ones
who did went under.
All of them leaving
behind a world
I will never understand.
This is what I mean
when I say I am spineless.
When I said my father
took it from me, I meant
to say God exists,
and he is my father,
life-bringer, holy
immigrant. My body now
my own forever.