for the lost: ft. a poem by Ocean Vuong, a courageously lost Black woman, and some questions for company
perching lines, no. 1
Hello-gentle people,
As you know, I have been responding to a need to slow down on publishing my essays. To sit with what my words mean, for my body and the bodies of you all who read them. I am also sitting with the things that are changing on Substack and giving myself space to release the urgencies that are not mine.
I found comfort in a post from my
collaborator, and the poetry of Ocean Vuong this past week, in his collection, Time is A Mother.
“I remembered my life”
“Woodworking at the end of the world” by Ocean Vuong
In a field at the end of the world: a streetlamp
shining on a patch of grass.
Having just come back to life, I lay down under its warm light
& waited for a way.
That’s when the boy appeared, lying next to me.
He was wearing a red Ninja Turtles t-shirt—but from
another era, the colors faraway.
I recognized his eyes: black buttons salvaged from the coat
I used to cover my mother’s face at the end.
Why do you exist? I wanted to know.
I felt the crickets around us but couldn’t hear them.
A chapel on the last day of war.
That’s how quiet he was.
The town I had walked from was small & American.
If I stayed on my knees, it would keep all my secrets.
When we heard the woodcutters coming closer, destroying
the past to build the future, the boy started to cry.
But the voice, the voice that came out
was an old man’s.
I reached into my pocket
but the gun was gone.
I must’ve dropped it while burying my language farther
up the road.
It’s okay, the boy said at last. I forgive you.
Then he kissed me as if returning a porcelain shard
to my cheek.
Shaking, I turned to him. I turned
& found, crumpled on the grass, the faded red shirt.
I put it over my face & stayed very still—like my mother at the end.
Then it came to me, my little life. I remembered my life
the way an axe handle, mid-swing, remembers the tree.
& I was free.
Courage without fear
Zefan writes of her sabbatical experience, shaped by the desire to make the most of the experience of being “very lost,” after losing a job and relocating. I read Zefan’s words as shaped by heart leaning in despite fear of what comes next. I loved this post and I couldn’t help but think about how often the myths of the StrongBlackWoman1 which often keep others from seeing our fears, vulnerabilities, and insecurities.
I think what is most brilliant to me about following her story is how I am reminded of Lucille Clifton’s poetry when I read. The invitation to wander and be willfully lost reminds me of “blessing the boats,” or “i’m not done yet,” which I will add here:
i'm not done yet by Lucille Clifton as possible as yeast as imminent as bread a collection of safe habits a collection of cares less certain than i seem more certain than i was a changed changer i continue to continue what i have been most of my lives is where i’m going
Landing Tracks
"Why do you exist? I wanted to know”
—Ocean Vuong
When was the last time you gave yourself permission to get lost? Or to shake in the presence of the unknown kissing your face? What questions linger and love you into becoming?
“Then it came to me, my little life.”
—Ocean Vuong
I suppose I want this moment for myself. Do you aspire to feel this overcoming realization like Vuong, in this poem?
To explore some Lucille Clifton writing prompts, please see this collaboration with if you haven’t already:
4. “Crossroads” by Tracy Chapman— This song, has been on repeat for me for several days. It about decision making and honoring ones true path. The lyrics are as piercing as the way she honors the hum in the word free chorus. My favorite lines are “I'm trying to protect what I keep inside/All the reasons why I live my life.”
I write it this way to honor the work of
in her book Too Heavy a Yoke: Black Women and the Burden of Strength.
Rose, thank you so much for reflecting on my post here. I think I mentioned to you that there’s so much about the StrongBlackWoman trope that I wanted to incorporate, but felt too overwhelming for this one. Very very cathartic that you were able to build this onto where I started.
And i’m not done yet is a poem I’ll hold close — thanks for introducing it to me.
Releasing the urgencies that aren’t mine- has been my vibe the past few months. I’m tired of being on high alert all the time. Great post, Rose.