Lantern Review | The Hybridity Issue

Christopher Santiago


My son, I'll give my life for you
Miss Saigon, Boubil & Schonberg

Proud I could name the spasm
of yellows and broken eyelashes
dying on the sidewalk:


Couldn't rise out of our circle.
The other boys
felt only the usual compassion: I plucked it

into my mouth, spit-
sticky wing strokes


When I sleep with strangers
you find me
the hole in your chest
has closed.

I try to talk
but my tongue's cut to pieces
each half-remembered word
a jag of one-way glass.


Didn’t you find it tiresome
always singing about him

who, later and whiskey lit,
would stare at me as if I weren't his but his

name lipsticked in blood—


(though he did leave
mine untouched—Tam—like a room
where someone you loved once lived)


—and where
did you think I’d fly?

There was too much water
and no country of ours.


I thought I heard you singing
through the sky and sea of your self.


If it was a song I heard
it swallowed its own tongue.