For K Phung
My best male friend in college was a fun guy.
Vietnamese—we share the same “middle name”—
Le, although his is Lê and mine Lệ. That extra
dot carried a lot of weight. Lê, an unassuming pear.
My dad insisted 丽 meant beautiful.
My aunt insisted Lì meant crying.
Names get complicated when navigating
three worlds. Consider the mushroom,
not flora, not fauna, but a secret
third thing. A bounty hiding in plain sight—
like the two of us. Our majesty masked
by expectations of Asian America.
He “wanted” to become a doctor,
a pediatrician trading lollipops
and smiles to snotty kids.
I chose to be a chemical engineer,
a magician converting matter
to fuel like fungi—
our wholeness deep underground,
right next to our group of visible
queer friends. I wonder if he ever
considered death, a self-destruction
on the way to reincarnation.
But he was too practical
and artful to consider such
a dismal reinvention.
He worried about my future.
Told me to get a credit card,
walked me home, afraid
I’d be taken in the dark.
In my head, that was the moment
we became potential beard and wig—
a mess of manicured hair
to be presented to parents,
if needed. As if our mothers’ imaginations
were limited by the pebbled paths of their pasts.
As if a spouse is a requirement
for attainment of the American Dream.
But deep in the woods, nấm
show us the way to immortality—
how to pen our poison,
how to draw the world
in networks of beauty,
and how to be
a truffle in the rough.
My favorite picture of us is after
we won Risk: Global Domination,
my stupid croakies hanging
from my neck like enokis
and his hair shiny and black
like the inside of a glazed portobello.
Both of us in lime green,
mid-laughter, knowing we have all
the time in the world.