by Thanhha Lai
Soft as a yam
gliding down
after three easy,
thrilling chews.
April 5
Unknown Father
I don’t know
any more about Father
than the small things
Mother lets slip.
He loved stewed eels,
paté chaud pastries,
and of course his children,
so much that he
grew teary
watching us sleep.
He hated the afternoon sun,
the color brown,
and cold rice.
Brother Quang remembers
Father often said
tuyt sút,
the Vietnamese way
to pronounce the French phrase
tout de suite
meaning right away.
Mother would laugh
when Father followed her
around the kitchen
repeating,
I’m starved for stewed eel,
tuyt sút, tuyt sút.
Sometimes I whisper
tuyt sút to myself
to pretend
I know him.
I would never say tuyt sút
in front of Mother.
None of us would want
to make her sadder
than she already is.
Every day
TV News
Brother Quang races home
from class,
throws down his bicycle,
exhausted,
no longer able to afford
gasoline for his moped.
Unbelievable,
he screams,
and turns on the TV.
A pilot for South Vietnam
bombed the presidential palace
downtown that afternoon.
Afterward the pilot flew north
and received a medal.
The news says the pilot
has been a spy
for the Communists
for years.
The Communists
captured Father,
so why would
any pilot
choose their side?
Brother Quang says,
One cannot justify war
unless each side
flaunts its own
blind conviction.
Since starting college,
he shows off even more
with tangled words.
I start to say so,
but Mother pats my hand,
her signal for me to calm down.
April 8
Birthday
I, the youngest,
get to celebrate
my actual birthday
even though I turned
a year older
like everyone else
at Tt.
I, the only daughter,
usually get roasted chicken,
dried bamboo soup,
and all-I-can-eat pudding.
This year,
Mother manages only
banana tapioca
and my favorite
black sesame candy.
She makes up for it
by allowing
one wish.
I dye my mouth
sugary black
and insist on
stories.
It’s not easy
to persuade Mother
to tell of her girlhood
in the North,
where her grandmother’s land
stretched farther than
doves could fly,
where looking pretty
and writing poetry
were her only duties.
She was promised to Father
at five.
They married at sixteen,
earlier than expected.
Everyone’s future changed
upon learning the name
H Chí Minh.
Change meant
land was taken away,
houses now belonged
to the state,
servants gained power
as fighters.
The country divided in half.
Mother and Father came south,
convinced it would be
easier to breathe
away from Communism.
Her father was to follow,
but he was waiting for his son,
who was waiting for his wife,
who was waiting to deliver a child
in its last week
in her belly.
The same week,
North and South
closed their doors.
No more migration.
No more letters.
No more family.
At this point,
Mother closes her eyes,
eyes that resemble no one else’s,
sunken and deep like Westerners’
yet almond-shaped like ours.
I always wish for her eyes,
but Mother says no.
Eyes like hers can’t help
but carry sadness;
even as a child
her parents were alarmed
by the weight in her eyes.
I want to hear more,
but nothing,
not even my pouts,
can make Mother open her eyes
and tell more.
April 10
Birthday Wishes
Wishes I keep to myself:
Wish I could do what boys do
and let the sun darken my skin,
and scars grid my knees.
Wish I could let my hair grow,
but Mother says the shorter the better
to beat Saigon’s heat and lice.
Wish I could lose my chubby cheeks.
Wish I could stay calm
no matter what
my brothers say.
Wish Mother would stop
chiding me to stay calm,
which makes it worse.
Wish I had a sister
to jump rope with
and sew doll clothes
and hug for warmth
in the middle of the night.
Wish Father would come home
so I can stop daydreaming
that he will appear
in my classroom
in a white navy uniform
and extend his hand toward me
for all my classmates to see.
Mostly I wish
Father would appear in our doorway
and make Mother’s lips
curl upward,
lifting them from
a permanent frown
of worries.
April 10
Night
A Day Downtown
Every spring
President Thiu
holds a long long long
ceremony to comfort
war wives.
Mother and I go because
after President Thiu’s
talk talk talk—
of winning the war,
of democracy,
of our fathers’ bravery—
each family gets
five kilos of sugar,
ten kilos of rice,
and a small jug of
vegetable oil.
Inside the cyclo
Mother crosses her legs
so I can fit beside her.
The breeze still cool,
we bounce across the bridge
shaped like a crescent moon
where I’m not to go by myself.
Mother smells of lavender
and warmth;
she’s so beautiful
even if
her cheeks are too hollow,
her mouth too dark with worries.
Despite warnings,
I still want her sunken eyes.
Before I see it,
&nb
sp; I hear downtown,
thick with beeps,
shouts, police whistles.
Everywhere,
mopeds and bicycles
race down the wide road,
moving out of the way
only when a truck
honks and mows straight down
the middle of the lane.
We get out
in front of an open market.
We push our way to
a bánh cun stand.
I love watching
the spread of rice flour on cloth,
stretched over a steaming pot.
Like magic a crepe forms
to be filled with shrimp
and eaten with
cucumber and bean sprouts.
It tastes even better
than it looks.
While my mouth is full,
the noises of the market
silence themselves,
letting me and my bánh cun
float.
We squeeze ourselves
out of the market,
toward the presidential palace.
We stand in line;
for even longer
we sit on hot metal benches
facing the podium.
My white cotton
hat and Mother’s flowery umbrella
are nothing
against the afternoon sun,
shooting rays into
my short short hair.
I’m dizzy
and thirsty;
the fish sauce
in the bánh cun
was very salty.
Mother gives me a tamarind candy.
I have never been
so thrilled
to drink my saliva.
Finally President Thiu appears,
tan and sweaty.
We know you have suffered.
I thank you,
your country thanks you.
Then he cries actual tears,
unwiped, facing the cameras.
Mother clicks her tongue:
Tears of an ugly fish.
I know that to mean
fake tears of a crocodile.
April 12
Twisting Twisting
Mother measures
rice grains
left in the bin.
Not enough to last
till payday
at the end of the month.
Her brows
twist like laundry
being wrung dry.
Yam and manioc
taste lovely
blended with rice,
she says, and smiles,
as if I don’t know
how the poor
fill their children’s bellies.
April 13
Closed Too Soon
A siren screams
over Miss Xinh’s voice
in the middle of a lesson
on smiley and bald
President Ford.
We all know it’s bad news.
School’s now closed;
everyone must go home
a month too soon.
I’m mad and pinch the girl
who shares my desk.
Tram is half my size,
so skinny and nervous.
Our mothers are friends.
She will tell on me.
She always tells on me.
Mother will again
scold me to be gentle.
I need time
to finish this riddle:
A man usually rides his bike
9 kilometers per hour,
yet the wind slows him
to 6.76 kilometers
for 26 minutes
and 5.55 kilometers
for 10;
how long until he gets home
11.54 kilometers away?
The first to solve it
gets the sweet potato plant
sprouting at the window.
I want to plant it
beside my papaya tree,
where vines can climb
and shade ripening fruit.
Again I pinch Tram,
knowing the plant
will be awarded
today
to the teacher’s pet,
who is always
skinny and nervous
and never me.
April 14
Promises
Five papayas
the sizes of
my head,
a knee,
two elbows,
and a thumb
cling to the trunk.
Still green
but promising.
April 15
Bridge to the Sea
Uncle Sn,
Father’s best friend,
visits us.
He’s short, dark, and smiley,
not tall, thin, and serious
like Father in photographs.
Still, when classmates
ask about my father,
sometimes short and smiley
come to mind
before I can stop it.
Uncle Sn goes straight
to the kitchen,
where the back door opens into
an alley.
Unbelievable luck!
This door bypasses the navy checkpoint
and leads straight to the port.
I will not risk
fleeing with my children
on a rickety boat.
Would a navy ship
meet your approval?
As if the navy
would abandon its country?
There won’t be a South Vietnam
left to abandon.
You really believe
we can leave?
When the time comes,
this house
is our bridge
to the sea.
April 16
Should We?
Mother calls a family meeting.
Ông Xuân has sold
leaves of gold
to buy twelve airplane tickets.
Bà Nam has a van
ready to load
twenty-five relatives
toward the coast.
Mother asks us,
Should we leave our home?
Brother Quang says,
How can we scramble away
like rats,
without honor, without dignity,
when everyone must help
rebuild the country?
Brother Khôi says,
What if Father comes home
and finds his family gone?
Brother V says,
Yes, we must go.
Everyone knows he dreams
of touching the same ground
where Bruce Lee walked.
Mother twists her brows.
I’ve lived in the North.
At first, not much will happen,
then suddenly Quang
will be asked to leave college.
Hà will come home
chanting the slogans
of H Chí Minh,
and Khôi will be rewarded
for reporting to his teacher
everything we say in the house.
Her brows twist
so much
we hush.
April 17
Sssshhhhhhh
Brother Khôi shakes me
before dawn.
I follow him
to the back garden.
In his palm chirps
a downy yellow fuzz,
just hatched.
He presses his palm
against my squeal.
No matter what Mother decides,
we are not to leave.
I must protect my chick
and you your papayas.
He holds out his pinky
and stares
stares
stares
until I extend mine
>
and we hook.
April 18
Quiet Decision
Dinnertime
I help Mother
peel sweet potatoes
to stretch the rice.
I start to chop off
a potato’s end
as wide as
a thumbnail,
then decide
to slice off
only a sliver.
I am proud
of my ability
to save
until I see
tears
in Mother’s
deep eyes.
You deserve to grow up
where you don’t worry about
saving half a bite
of sweet potato.
April 19
Early Monsoon
We pretend
the monsoon
has come early.
In the distance
bombs
explode like thunder,
slashes
lighten the sky,
gunfire
falls like rain.
Distant
yet within ears,
within eyes.
Not that far away
after all.
April 20
The President Resigns
On TV President Thiu
looks sad and yellow;
what has happened to his tan?
His eyes brim with tears;
this time they look real.
