The version of the poem that appears on this page is the one that appears in Ocean Vuong's second poetry collection, Time Is a Mother (2022). I included the video and the New York Times publication on this page as well because there are slight differences in each version, which I thought was interesting. The NYT article was published in 2016, and the Wall Street Journal video was recorded the month before Time Is a Mother was released.
He stood alone in the backyard, so dark
the night purpled around him.
I had no choice. I opened the door
& stepped out. Wind
in the branches. He watched me with kerosene
-blue eyes. What do you want? I asked, forgetting I had
no language. He kept breathing,
to stay alive. I was a boy—
which meant I was a murderer
of my childhood. & like all murderers, my god
was stillness. My god, he was still
there. Like something prayed for
by a man with no mouth. The green-blue lamp
swirled in its socket. I didn’t
want him. I didn’t want him
to be beautiful—but needing beauty
to be more than hurt gentle
enough to hold, I
reached for him. I reached—not the bull—
but the depths. Not an answer but
an entrance the shape of
an animal. Like me.
Read along with the author. Note the word choice change at 1:15.