by Thanhha Lai
I can no longer be your president
but I will never leave my people
or our country.
Mother lifts one brow,
what she does
when she thinks
I’m lying.
April 21
Watch Over Us
Uncle Sn returns
and tells us
to be ready to leave
any day.
Don’t tell anyone,
or all of Saigon
will storm the port.
Only navy families
can board the ships.
Uncle Sn and Father
graduated in the same navy class.
It was mere luck
that Uncle Sn
didn’t go on the mission
where Father was captured.
Mother pulls me close
and pats my head.
Father watches over us
even if he’s not here.
Mother tells me
she and Father have a pact.
If war should separate them,
they know to find each other
through Father’s ancestral home
in the North.
April 24
Crisscrossed Packs
Pedal, pedal
Mother’s feet
push the sewing machine.
The faster she pedals
the faster stitches appear
on heavy brown cloth.
Two rectangles
make a pack.
A long strip
makes a handle
to be strapped across
the wearer’s chest.
Hours later
the stitches appear
in slow motion,
the needle a worm
laying tiny eggs
that sink into brown cloth.
The tired worm
reproduces much more slowly
at the end of the day
than at the beginning
when Mother started
the first of five bags.
Brother Khôi says too loudly,
Make only three.
Mother goes
to a high shelf,
bringing back Father’s portrait.
Come with us
or we’ll all stay.
Think, my son;
your action will determine
our future.
Mother knows this son
cannot stand to hurt
anyone,
anything.
Look at Father.
Come with us
so Father
will be proud
you obeyed your mother
while he’s not here.
I look at my toes,
feeling Brother Khôi’s eyes
burn into my scalp.
I also feel him slowly nodding.
Who can go against
a mother
who has become gaunt like bark
from raising four children alone?
April 26
Choice
Into each pack:
one pair of pants,
one pair of shorts,
three pairs of underwear,
two shirts,
sandals,
toothbrush and paste,
soap,
ten palms of rice grains,
three clumps of cooked rice,
one choice.
I choose my doll,
once lent to a neighbor
who left it outside,
where mice bit
her left cheek
and right thumb.
I love her more
for her scars.
I dress her
in a red and white dress
with matching hat and booties
that Mother knitted.
April 27
Left Behind
Ten gold-rimmed glasses
Father brought back from America
where he trained before I was born.
Brother Quang’s
report cards,
each ranking him first in class,
beginning in kindergarten.
Vines of bougainvillea
fully in bloom,
burgundy and white
like the colors
of our house.
Vines of jasmine
in front of every window
that remind Mother
of the North.
A cowboy leather belt
Brother V sewed
on Mother’s machine
and broke her needle.
That was when
he adored
Johnny Cash
more than
Bruce Lee.
A row of glass jars
Brother Khôi used
to raise fighting fish.
Two hooks
and the hammock
where I nap.
Photographs:
every Tt at the zoo,
Father in his youth,
Mother in her youth,
baby pictures,
where you can’t tell whose bottom
is exposed for all the world to see.
Mother chooses ten
and burns the rest.
We cannot leave
evidence of Father’s life
that might hurt him.
April 27
Evening
Wet and Crying
My biggest papaya
is light yellow,
still flecked with green.
Brother V wants
to cut it down,
saying it’s better than
letting the Communists have it.
Mother says yellow papaya
tastes lovely
dipped in chili salt.
You children should eat
fresh fruit
while you can.
Brother V chops;
the head falls;
a silver blade slices.
Black seeds spill
like clusters of eyes,
wet and crying.
April 28
Sour Backs
At the port
we find out
there’s no such thing
as a secret
among the Vietnamese.
Thousands
found out
about the navy ships
ready to abandon the navy.
Uncle Sn flares elbows into wings,
lunges forward
protecting his children.
But our family sticks together
like wet pages.
I see nothing but backs
sour and sweaty.
Brother V steps up,
placing Mother in front of him
and lifting me
onto his shoulders.
His palms press
Brothers Quang and Khôi
forward.
I promise myself
to never again
make fun of
Bruce Lee.
April 29
Afternoon
One Mat Each
We climb on
and claim a space
of two straw mats
under the deck,
enough for us five
to lie side by side.
By sunset our space
is one straw mat,
enough for us five
to huddle together.
Bodies cram
every centimeter
below deck,
then every centimeter
on deck.
Everyone knows the ship
could sink,
unable to hold
the piles of bodies
that keep crawling on
like raging ants
from a disrupted nest.
But no one
is heartless enough
to say
stop
because what if
they had been
stopped
before their turn?
April 29
Sunset
In the Dark
Uncle Sn visits
and whispers to Mother.
We follow Mother
who follows Uncle Sn
who leads his family
up to the deck
and off the ship.
It has been said
the ship next door
has a better engine,
more water,
endless fuel,
countless salty eggs.
Uncle Sn lingers
without getting on
the new ship;
so do we.
Hordes pour
by us,
beyond us.
Above us
bombs pierce the sky.
Red and green flares
explode like fireworks.
All lights are off
so the port will not be
a target.
In the dark
a nudge here
a nudge there
and we end up
back on the first ship
in the same spot
with two mats.
Without lights
our ship glides out to sea,
emptied of half its passengers.
April 29
Near midnight
Saigon Is Gone
I listen to
the swish, swish
of Mother’s handheld fan,
the whispers among adults,
the bombs in the ever greater distance.
The commander has ordered
everyone below deck
even though he has chosen
a safe river route
to connect to the sea,
avoiding the obvious escape path
through Vng Tu,
where the Communists are dropping
all the bombs they have left.
I hope TiTi got out.
Mother is sick
with waves in her stomach
even though the ship
barely creeps along.
We hear a helicopter
circling circling
near our ship.
People run and scream,
Communists!
Our ship dips low
as the crowd runs to the left,
and then to the right.
This is not helping Mother.
I wish they would stand still
and hush.
The commander is talking:
Do not be frightened!
It’s a pilot for our side
who has jumped into the water,
letting his helicopter
plunge in behind him.
The pilot
appears below deck,
wet and shaking.
He salutes the commander
and shouts,
At noon today the Communists
crashed their tanks
through the gates
of the presidential palace
and planted on the roof
a flag with one huge star.
Then he adds
what no one wants to hear:
It’s over;
Saigon is gone.
April 30
Late afternoon
PART II
At Sea
Floating
Our ship creeps along
the river route
without lights
without cooking
without bathrooms.
We are told
to sip water
only when we must
so our bodies
can stop needing.
Mine won’t listen.
Mother sighs.
I don’t blame her,
having a daughter
who’s either
dying of thirst
or demanding release.
Other girls
must be made
of bamboo,
bending whichever way
they are told.
Mother tells Uncle Sn
I need a bathroom.
We are allowed
into the commander’s cabin,
where the bathroom is
so white and clean,
so worth the embarrassment.
May 1
S-l-o-w-l-y
I nibble on
the last clump
of cooked rice
from my sack.
Hard and moldy,
yet chewy and sweet
inside.
I chew each grain
s-l-o-w-l-y.
I hear others chew
but have never seen
anyone actually eating.
No one has offered
to share
what I smell:
sardines, dried durian,
salted eggs, toasted sesame.
I lean toward
the family
on the next mat.
Mother firmly
shakes her head.
She looks so sad
as she pats
my hand.
May 2
Rations
On the third day
we join the sea
toward Thailand.
The commander says
it’s safe enough
for his men to cook,
for us to go above deck,
for all to smile a little.
He says there’s enough
rice and water
for three weeks,
but rescue should happen
much earlier.
Do not worry,
ships from all countries
are out looking for us.
Morning, noon, and night
we each get
one clump of rice,
small, medium, large,
according to our height,
plus one cup of water
no matter our size.
The first hot bite
of freshly cooked rice,
plump and nutty,
makes me imagine
the taste of ripe papaya
although one has nothing
to do with the other.
May 3
Routine
Mother cannot allow
idle children,
hers or anyone else’s.
After one week
on the ship
Brother Quang begins
English lessons.
I wish he would
keep it to:
How are you?
This is a pen.
But when an adult is not there
he says,
We must consider the shame
of abandoning our own country
and begging toward the unknown
where we will all begin again
at the lowest level
on the social scale.
It’s better in the afternoons
with Brother V,
who just wants us
to do front kicks
and back kicks,
at times adding
one-two punches.
Brother Khôi gets to monitor
lines for the bathrooms,
where bottoms stick out
to the sea
behind blankets blowing
in the wind.
When not in class
I have to stay
within sight of Mother,
like a baby.
Mother gives me
her writing pad.
Write tiny,
there’s but one pad.
Writing becomes
boring,
so I draw
over my words.
Pouches of pan-fried shredded coconut
Tamarind paste on banana leaf
Steamed corn on the cob
/>
Rounds of fried dough
Wedges of pineapple on a stick
And of course
cubes of papaya tender and shiny.
Mother smoothes back my hair,
knowing the pain
of a girl
who loves snacks
but is stranded
on a ship.
May 7
Once Knew
Water, water, water
everywhere
making me think
land is just something
I once knew
like
napping on a hammock
bathing without salt
watching Mother write
laughing for no reason
kicking up powdery dirt
and
wearing clean nightclothes
smelling of the sun.
May 12
Brother Khôi’s Secret
Brother Khôi stinks;
we can’t ignore it.
He stews and sweats
in a jacket
he won’t take off.
Forced to sponge-wipe
twice a day,
he wraps the jacket
around his waist.
He keeps clutching something
in the left pocket,
where the stench grows.
