Neighbors complain,
even the ones
eight mats away,
saying it’s bad enough
being trapped
in putrid, hot air
made from fermented bodies
and oily sweat,
must everybody
also endure
something rotten?
Finally Brother V
holds Brother Khôi down
and forces him
to open his hand.
A flattened chick
lies crooked,
neck dangling
off his palm.
The chick had not
a chance
after we shoved
for hours to board.
Brother Khôi screams,
kicks everything off our mats.
Brother Quang
carries him
above deck.
Quiet.
May 13
Last Respects
After two weeks at sea
the commander calls
all of us above deck
for a formal lowering of
our yellow flag
with three red stripes.
South Vietnam no longer exists.
One woman tries to throw
herself overboard,
screaming that without a country
she cannot live.
As they wrestle her down,
a man stabs his heart
with a toothbrush.
I don’t know them,
so their pain seems unreal
next to Brother Khôi’s,
whose eyes are as wild
as those of his broken chick.
I hold his hand:
Come with me.
He doesn’t resist.
Alone
at the back of the ship
I open Mother’s white handkerchief.
Inside lies my mouse-bitten doll,
her arms wrapped around
the limp fuzzy body of his chick.
I tie it all into a bundle.
Brother Khôi nods
and I smile,
but I regret
not having my doll
as soon as the white bundle
sinks into the sea.
May 14
One Engine
In the middle
of the night
our ship stops.
Mother hugs me,
hearts drumming
as one.
If the Communists
catch us fleeing,
it’s a million times worse
than staying at home.
After many shouts
and much time
the ship moves forward
with just one engine.
Mother would not
release me.
The commander says,
Thailand is much farther
on one engine.
It was risky to take
the river route.
We escaped bombs
but missed the rescue ships.
The commander decides
the ration is now
half a clump of rice
only at morning and night,
and one cup of water
all day.
Sip,
he says,
and don’t waste strength
moving around
because it’s impossible
to predict
how much longer
we will
be floating.
May 16
The Moon
During the day
the deck belongs
to men and children.
At nightfall
women make their way
up.
In single files
they sponge-bathe
and relieve themselves
behind blanket curtains.
I always stand in line
with Mother.
Every night
she points upward.
At least
the moon remains
unchanged.
Your father could be looking
at the same round moon.
He may already understand
we will wait for him
across the world.
I feel guilty,
having not once
thought of Father.
I can’t wish for him
to appear
until I know where
we’ll be.
May 18
A Kiss
The horn on our ship
blows and blows,
waking everyone
from a week-long nap.
A sure answer,
honk honk,
seems close enough
and real enough
to call everyone on deck.
A gigantic ship
with an American flag
moves closer.
Men in white uniform
wave and smile.
Our commander wears
his navy jacket and hat,
so white and so crisp.
Now I realize
why I like him so much.
In uniform,
he looks just like Father.
He boards the other ship,
salutes and shakes hands
with a man whose hair
grows on his face
not on his head
in the color of flames.
I had not known
such hair was possible.
We clap and clap
as the ships draw together
and kiss.
Boxes and boxes
pass onto our deck.
Oranges, apples, bananas,
cold sweet bubbly drinks,
chocolate drops, fruity gum.
The American ship
tows ours
with a steel braid
thick as my body.
Our rescue now certain,
the party blossoms
as food suddenly
comes up from below.
Ramen noodles, beef jerky,
dried shrimp, butter biscuits,
tamarind pods, canned fish,
and drums and drums of real water.
Mother says,
People share
when they know
they have escaped hunger.
Shouldn’t people share
because there is hunger?
That night I stand behind
blowing blankets
and pour fresh water
all over my skin.
How sweet water tastes
even when mixed with soap.
May 24
Golden Fuzz
Water, water
still everywhere
but in the distance
appears a black dot.
We are told
to pack
our crisscrossed packs
and line up in a single file.
Twenty at a time
board a motorboat
heading toward the dot.
An arm extends
to help us board,
an arm hairy with fuzz.
I touch it,
so real and long,
not knowing if I will
have another chance
to touch golden fuzz.
I pluck one hair.
Mother slaps my hand.
Brother Quang speaks quickly
in the language I must learn.
The fuzzy man laughs.
I’m grateful the boat
starts to rock,
so Mother hasn’t
the composure
to scold me,
not just yet.
I roll my fuzzy souvenir
between my thumb and finger
and can’t help
but smile.
May 26
; Tent City
We have landed
on an island
called Guam,
which no one can pronounce
except Brother Quang,
who becomes
translator for all.
Many others arrived
before us
and are living
in green tents
and sleeping on cots.
We eat inside a huge tent
where Brother V
becomes head chef,
heating up cans of
beef and potatoes
tasting like salty vomit.
We eat only
canned fruit
in thick syrup,
and everyone wants extras
but we get only a cup.
Brother V somehow
brings home
a huge can,
pumping it to work out
his arm muscles.
We eat
straight from the can
as I search for
cherries and grapes.
May 28
Life in Waiting
A routine starts
as soon as we settle
into our tent.
Camp workers
teach us English
mornings and afternoons.
Evenings we have to ourselves.
We watch movies outdoors
with images projected
onto a white sheet.
Brother Quang translates
into a microphone,
his voice sad and slow.
If it’s a young cowboy
like Clint Eastwood,
everyone cheers.
If it’s an old cowboy,
like John Wayne,
most of us boo
and go swimming.
The Disney cartoons
lure out the girls,
who always surround
Brother V,
begging him to break
yet another piece of wood.
I can still hear them begging
when I go sit with Brother Khôi,
who rarely speaks anymore
but I’m happy to be near him.
June to early July
Nc Mm
Someone
should be kissed
for having the heart
to send cases of fish sauce
to Guam.
Everything is
more edible
with nc mm.
Brother V
sautés the beef-and-potato goo
with onions
and sprinkles on the magic sauce
before serving the mess with rice.
Lines extend to the beach.
Someone catches
a sea creature
puffy and watery
like a cucumber.
Brother V slices it
into slippery strips
and stews it with
seaweed
and the magic sauce.
So many appetites
wake up
that Brother V
just has time
to cook rice
and serve it with
plain fish sauce.
People begin to cook
as long as they
can get a cup
of nc mm.
Brother Khôi hands it out
in the same white cups
as tea.
Both dark brown,
so of course
I drink a gulp of the
most salty,
most bitter,
most fishy
tea
ever.
My head whirls
and my breath stinks
for days.
I do not mind.
July 1
Amethyst Ring
Mother wants to sell
the amethyst ring
Father brought back
from America,
where he trained
in the navy
before I was born.
She wants to buy
needles and thread,
fabric and sandals
from the camp’s
black market.
I have never seen her
without this purple rock.
I can’t fall asleep
unless I twist the ring
and count circles.
Brother Quang says,
NO!
What’s the point of
new shirts and sandals
if you lose the last
tangible remnant of love?
I don’t understand
what he said
but I agree.
July 2
Choose
Some choose to go to France
because many Vietnamese
moved there
when North and South
divided years ago.
Uncle Sn says
come with his family
to Canada,
where his sister lives
and can help watch over us
until Father returns.
Mother knows his wife
would mind.
She tells him
Canada is too cold.
We stand in line
to fill out papers.
Every family must decide
by tonight,
when fireworks will explode
in honor of America’s birth.
Mother starts to write
“Paris,”
home of a cousin
she has never met.
The man behind us whispers,
Choose America,
more opportunities there,
especially for a family
with boys ready to work.
Mother whispers back,
My sons
must first go to college.
If they’re smart
America will give them
scholarships.
Mother chooses.
July 4
Another Tent City
We are flown
to another tent city
in humid, hot Florida,
where alligators are shown
as entertainment.
The people in charge
bring in Saigon-famous singers
to raise refugee spirits,
but faces keep twisting with worries.
For a family to leave,
an American must come to camp
and sponsor a family.
We wait and wait,
but Mother says a possible widow,
three boys, and a pouty girl
make too huge a family
by American standards.
A family of three
in the tent to our left
gets sponsored to Georgia;
the couple to our right
goes to South Carolina.
Newcomers leave before us.
Mother can barely eat,
while Brother Quang
picks the skin at his elbows.
I don’t mind being here.
My hair is growing
as I’ve become dark and strong
from running and swimming.
Then by chance Mother learns
sponsors prefer those
whose applications say “Christians.”
Just like that
Mother amends our faith,
saying all beliefs
are pretty much the same.
July to early August
Alabama
A man comes
who owns a store
that sells cars
and wants to train
one young man
to be a mechanic.
He keeps holding up
one finger
before picking Brother Quang,
whose studies in engineering
impress him.
Mother doesn’t
care
what the man
came looking for.
By the time
she is done
staring, blinking,
wiping away tears,
all without speaking English,
our entire family
has a sponsor
to Alabama.
August 7
Our Cowboy
Our sponsor
looks just like
an American should.
Tall and pig-bellied,
black cowboy hat,
tan cowboy boots,
cigar smoking,
teeth shining,
red in face,
golden in hair.
I love him
immediately
and imagine him
to be good-hearted and loud
and the owner of a horse.
August 8
PART III
Alabama
Unpack and Repack
We’re giddy
when we
get off the airplane.
Our cowboy,
who never takes off
his tall, tall hat,
delivers us
to his huge house,
where grass
spreads out so green
it looks painted.
Stay until you feel ready.