It matters where you are born. In a barn
means you are the holy star. Meteor child.
Jesus was the first bomb. Where are you from
is a question I field too much. Once
I said Vietnam and the white man said I fought there.
I loved the country. I love their people.
That’s the day I started to lie
about my birth. In the stable
the horses kicked me from their wombs.
It was exactly like finding a baby
in a haystack. It was snowing
in Michigan when the priest exorcised
me from my mother, said: there is good
in you yet before placing a prayer
for the ground. Blessed America,
there is good in you yet. The moon
doesn’t have to bury any children because the earth
carries so many bodies in the soil. In a casket
people are sometimes born. I have told my origin
story over and over. My parents fought, too.
In Vietnam. They dodged Jesus, who’d
extended his hand. And so I was born
in a lunar mansion—a configuration of the moon
where my face changes in accordance with the light.