Green Rope in Window Hue Viet Nam
Covered Bicycle An Hoi Viet Nam
At night, I dream I’m a bird in a room.
The room is yours, like the house, like the sun, like
the man you want me to call Papa.
There are hands. His. Yours. Hands that push and sting and
choke my body. My body, also yours.
There’s a mouth. I flinch when it calls my name. Everything is so ugly
in the mouth, especially me.
It’s all for your own good, you say with kindness;
your kindness also a mouth.
There’s a window. It lets nothing out, not even air.
In the room in my dreams, I sit by the window and sing to the moon.
Behind me, the old fan cricks and cracks and groans like an ailing ghost.
I sing and sing, louder and louder, so I never look at it too long.
Alamo
A shack where a house once stood
Shingles that hang on by a thread
This was once a home
Built by muscled men
Carefully crafted to withstand anything
Except time
A porch where many once sat
Is now a stiff wind from extinction
Rusted rockers turned from green to brown
A screen door shredded
From temple to tetanus
The roof appears to cave
While the foundation holds firm
A home that once slept six
A time capsule
Full of firsts and lasts
Nothing left but ruins and
Memories clinging to the insides
The house is empty
But the home still stands