Summer 2005 • Vol. XXVII No. 3 Poetry |

In Hai Phong

for Nguyen Quang Thieu In Hai Phong I shared my small hotel room with a friend from Hanoi. He lay on the floor next to my bed, and in the dark, he told me how he once had his mouth pressed against the tangle of a woman's sexual hair, and then he said her name out loud—Hoa, which means flower. He said that the flower of her sex opened when he said her name, his lips pressed against the lips of her sex—Hoa. My friend told me this story without any irony, and with a sweetness men where I come from mostly don't understand. The noisy fan almost kept time with the rhythm of his words. The heat, even at midnight, was unbearable. I heard shouts out in the street, and a woman laughing. My friend said that when the lights went out, she put her fingers inside his mouth. 

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece



Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.

Read More

Subscribe

Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.

Donate

With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.