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.