SILENCE

 

Silence
Hollows the reed
For
The wind’s song

Silence
Tunes the heartstrings
For
The story

Silence
Readies the self
For
The embrace

RECONCILIATION

 

Our bruises
 

Red and purple

Black and brown

Forgotten

Forgiven

Forgiving

We run through green padi

Our cheeks meet

Pink and rosy

Under watchful clusters of dragon eyes

Our fire crackles

Orange and gold

AFTER LAST NIGHT

 

I'd sip some now!

Lingering Xinjiang Summer,

roses and raisins,

saffron

soaking

last night's tea

Should it matter?

Midnight flyers,

dawn crawlers

are drowning

Drunk in their share.

JULY 4TH IN ALASKA

 

America is MỸ in Vietnamese, my mother tongue – the beautiful country.  But it’s the cold I remember the first time I came.

We landed in Alaska, the great land.  Ninety-three boat people confronted by the unexpectedly freezing winds of paradise.  September and there was snow on the sides of the runway already.

“TUYET, TUYET,” we whispered, jostling each other to catch a glimpse of the magical substance through the 747’s windows.

“Dragon breath,” the children said big-eyed at their breath vaporizing in the frigid air. They blew away happily, trying to breath dragon strength into the shivery intimidated lines we adults formed in front of the immigration officers. We knew better than the kids though. Human flotsam, that’s what we were; washed up leftovers from a war best forgotten.

The fair-haired blue-shirted giants from immigration dealt with us like a catch of salmon – pulling out our personal details from the bags hung around each of our necks, scrutinizing our parts from feet to head to nose to eyes to ears to make sure we were who we said we were, stamping their big red seals on our papers before sorting us into separate holding tanks, before sending us on.

“Where’s my family?” THIEM Ngoc, seventy year old Aunty Jade, asked me.

© 2012 by SAMANTA JONES