Night of the Ox

Last night I was an ox. Forager with horns, trudging through the muck

to claim a place in heaven. Somewhere in the riverswell, you saddled

yourself on my back. I didn’t notice at first. Your tail blushed narrow

in the dark. When the mist parted, it was too late. A nest sprang

up between my shoulderblades; crooked oasis of wood chips and laundry.

Against the currents, you planted in my ears a song of mangrove trees,

asked to build heaven on my back. Hooked your teeth around the mole

behind my left horn. I was determined to march, despite all the fresh

weight. A beast-garden wading through the whirlpools: rat and ox

gnarled together in a singular carrier of dreams. I dragged your weeds

your moss your trunks your closed fists your pink-alarm desire

your midnight waking I dragged you and all your postlapsarian

foreknowledge to the bank. God, I’ve got to get out of this allegory.

When you fled to shore, torso arched like a knife, winning the race,

claiming the land, the sanded heaven I swallowed before I could open

my mouth again to bray—I admit, I felt betrayed. Look at me:

stubborn with weeds, still in need of saving. When I drag my face

out of the dark, my mouth runs a river. Banks bursting with shit.

5 Times I Saw Younghill Kang