a word stranded by its language

I knew I wanted to post something by Ocean Vuong this year, but it took me a long time to decide which poem. But I just kept coming back to this one. One of the things I love about Vuong's poetry is that it is often sort of viscerally horrifying, while at the same time being an absolute triumph of language.

Because the butterfly's yellow wing
flickering in black mud
was a word
stranded by its language.
Because no one else
was coming — & I ran
out of reasons.
So I gathered fistfuls
of  ash, dark as ink,
hammered them
into marrow, into
a skull thick
enough to keep
the gentle curse
of  dreams. Yes, I aimed
for mercy — 
but came only close
as building a cage
around the heart. Shutters
over the eyes. Yes,
I gave it hands
despite knowing
that to stretch that clay slab
into five blades of light,
I would go
too far. Because I, too,
needed a place
to hold me. So I dipped
my fingers back
into the fire, pried open
the lower face
until the wound widened
into a throat,
until every leaf shook silver
with that god
-awful scream
& I was done.
& it was human.

—Ocean Vuong, "Essay on Craft," from Poetry magazine, July/August 2017.