the faithful work of drowning

after Ocean Vuong

(in the distance, 
bombed cathedrals)

when i come to, i’m pulling
my father up by the hair;

between my fingers, strands
of knotted seaweed & pinched

sunlight; his gorged & crimson
cheek against the untended rock 

of beach; from this angle, he—
looks asleep, adrift, maybe—

a green bottle knocking against
the sea-black sands of consciousness

& i’m reduced, immediately,
to desire, foaming to a lather, 

reaching—