Picture of the physical book


I cannot live in a world of suffocation,
you cannot live in a world of restraint.

Drawing from Vietnam’s long and turbulent history—from Phùng Thị Chính’s suicide in the river Hát, to the casualties of the Vietnam War—Do’s poems highlight the constant struggles of love and survival, and a country’s continuing fight to preserve its traditional way of life.

Do Nguyen Mai’s poetry is elegant, beautiful, and will not hesitate to gut you in the same breath. Her first collection is a clean and polished portrait—abundant with joy and tragedy, hers is a fresh voice shedding light on the Vietnamese diaspora. Ghosts Still Walking is a brilliant introduction to the stories our people carried across the Pacific. ~ Alex Dang

Do’s debut collection stuns with stabbing diction and fluid conversation. There is a softness to her sounds, but a violence to her verbs. A sense of anxious rushing fills each piece not because of its pacing, but because of the extremes with which Do paints life, love, and being. It is all or nothing, every last drop in space. ~ Rachel Charlene Lewis, reviewed in Maudlin House

I have yet to read a poetry collection that is more haunting than Do Nguyen Mai’s Ghosts Still Walking. Her poetry is chilling, and forced me to set the collection down on multiple occasions because I was taken aback by all of the weighty material the poems tackled in such a poignant way. Highly influenced by the long and sorrowful history of Vietnam, this collection will send shivers down your spine. ~ Noor Hindi, reviewed in Nervous Poodle Poetry

Ghosts Still Walking is every bit as haunting as you can imagine. ~ Abigail Pearson, reviewed in Rambling Writer

# First edition, second print run – $10.00   $8.00



blood red, both
noblewoman and mountain girl
home made of tapestry
strung between two trees

limbs, charred twigs
bound beneath fabric,
soot embedded within
the same earth as gold

skin of sandalwood
lips lacquered blossoms
lungs seeping smoke trails—

body not mortal, more
smoldering, offering at
the altar of this earth
and I, all incense, all dream—

breath, heaven-willed
beating heart, divine