Ode to Masturbation
Pearled semen trickles from vessel
as the silence of possibilities dries
on the floor and inside my palm.
Even now, as the body trembles
from the pleasure of its making,
somewhere, a plane
is pregnant with death.
When starlight sparkling
on the surface of falling bombs
and flames turn muscle
into pompous, skin into ash,
the sound of a scream in mid-death,
straining to push the weight
of last words, can you blame the hand
for craving the softest parts?
Reach down, there is music
in the body, play yourself
like a lyre, insert the finger
into sanctum, feel
the quivering of crevices, skin
palpitating ripples as if stretched
over drumbeats.
Reach down. Let explosions be muted
by climaxes, the Holy Water
between your thighs flow
into rivulets of cleansing,
let it rinse the soil of drying blood.
Reach down, there is music
in the cunt, the cock,
the asshole. Grab your balls—
that grenade of white flowers.
Reach down as fathers destroy the sons
and daughters of other fathers,
as faces emerge from wombs
and exiled into memory.
Reach down as a thousand I love you’s
fail to reach the man caressing
the trigger’s black tongue.
Because even now, in a city shimmering
from shards of broken halos,
we are not holy, only beautiful.
Because even now as I kneel to wipe
this cooling pool of sperm,
down the hall—a man
is beating madness into a child’s skull,
and not once will I ask
my unborn children
to forgive
this hand.
- Ocean Vuong
