We are reminded that the greatest accolades in life are so simple and yet so grand in their validation of our own survival. The exit wound becomes a point of departure, becomes both entry and exit point to narrative breath. Vuong finds home within the exit wound, carves out and inhabits this liminal space. In "Threshold," Vuong tells us what it’s like to go through the exit point.
behind the door. I didn’t know the cost
of entering a song—was to lose
your way back.
Then the narrator confides, they went in and lost. To enter a song completely is to lose oneself completely, to not return to the entrance point, to the nexus where the exit point is only a small bullet wound of light. And oh how different the light is once lost, and oh how different the song once sung, and oh how different the summer snow burns the body of verse.