By Mai Der Vang
For Pos Moua
What is the name for an antelope
     who grazes inside a dream
then vanishes into the
             nebula’s brush.
          What is the face
for refurbishing grammar
       at each comma’s lip.
          Whose identity never
remembers the shape of beige.
  What is the word
             for how to conjure
       the sigh of a line hushed
   beneath the flap of a thousand
shifting plumes.
What is the body of a
       garden where a crescent
          despairs, drifts beneath
  the melt of amber.
The season is always growing
out its hooves.
             One cradlesong
      of your leaving is not larger
  than the forest of your arrival.
To make you a noun forever.
        A loss of you
cannot be equal to the loss of you.
