Threshold by Ocean Vuong

Threshold

In the body, where everything has a price,

                I was a beggar. On my knees,

I watched, through the keyhole, not

                the man showering, but the rain

falling through him: guitar strings snapping

                over his globed shoulders.

He was singing, which is why

                I remember it. His voice—

it filled me to the core

                like a skeleton. Even my name

knelt down inside me, asking

                to be spared.

He was singing. It is all I remember.

                For in the body, where everything has a price,

I was alive. I didn’t know

                there was a better reason.

That one morning, my father would stop

                —a dark colt paused in downpour—

& listen for my clutched breath

                behind the door. I didn’t know the cost

of entering a song—was to lose

                your way back.

So I entered. So I lost.

                I lost it all with my eyes

wide open.