(from the Summer of Three Foxes)
It is easier to boil water than it is to freeze it. It is easier to write a poem, pay
a bill, open a can of tuna, or peel a beet, than it is to read a book that has sat
too long on the kitchen table. A sandwich is a poor substitute for a husband
or lover. The couple ride everywhere together and are seeking a West Coast
miracle that can carry them through a winter and so they can be near their
children. I don’t know how to repair what is damaged other than to listen and
appreciate what you are saying and what you have done. I apologize a lot
these days and try to claim what I am accountable for. You say I am not
addressing something, hiding from what is directly in front of me. I am very
good at not doing what I am supposed to be doing. I have a lifetime of
avoidance, longing, and suppression, enough to found a new religion or
sustain one of the old ones. You ask me to think about how to see you in the
midst of obfuscation. Like an asterisk leading to a footnote. This man loves
this person, this flavor ice cream, the hand cut fries, this feeling of calm after
a good day when many days have not been good, standing outside and looking
up at the stars, falling asleep watching old episodes of The X Files with Scully’s
waves of hair and Mulder’s dry obstinacy. It is easier to walk around a large
pachyderm than it is to identify what we are touching with blindfolded eyes.
It is too early, or maybe it is already too late. What I imagine as a simple thing
is really more like cooking mung bean pancakes where the planning and
preparation extends for days. The things I see as complex require a gentle
touch, like a hand placed on a chest. A simple act that alters the heart, aligns
the body and mind, frees the discontent to reside elsewhere. At this hour I
am not dreaming, I am not touching softness, I am not thinking about the
morning. I am thinking about touching your arm and kissing the softest parts,
the underside of the wrist, the crook of the elbow. I am a distant conversation.
I am a distant husband, I am a distant father. Easier still is the body and the
secrets it holds in each of its scars. It feels good to touch me here, and here,
and yes, there too.
Leo Hwang’s work has appeared in Human Being & Literature, Meat for Tea, The Massachusetts Review, Glimmer Train Stories, Fiction, Gulf Coast, and other literary magazines. He received the Rosselli/de Filippis Scholarship at the Napa Valley Writers’ Conference and has been awarded scholarships to the Bread Loaf
Writers’ Conference.