Nguyet Mai

When I was a girl,

I thought that when

you love a man,

you’ll want to be

touched like a

delicate flower,

petals opening

slowly to his touch.

But it didn’t take

me long to realize

that love could

also be like

a burning field:

scorching, rough—

the arsonist

taking what’s

rightfully his,

and in the places

where his calloused

hands assaulted,

blossomed sunflowers

that reached the sky.