That year, 1974,
we didn't go as summers before to Cap St Jacques
willingly locked inside our city like oxen in barns
Saturdays Sundays were
movie nights at Rex
street cart popcorn, burst kernels bubbling in jets of gold
flecks
Saturdays Sundays were
cruising home by Bach Dang Quay
father at the wheel, mother by his side, the passing
streetlamps a blur
until a crazed lady ran past, sheer naked, and to our
dismay
father asked, “Want another look?”
as Mother, frowning, her eyes reflecting the ships
like bobbing homes on black water, light and music afloat.
Did we ever wonder
Would they ever sail beyond our borders?
No, never!
Safe inside Saigon, together, snug in our red
Mazda,
plate EO 3592, we U-turned
for a better look at the stark naked lady
her skin shone against the dark of water and the dark of
night
more animal than human
her voice laced into the wind unconcerned
I, going on thirteen, did not worry
what this holding up in the heart of my native city
could mean
Highway One,
its new asphalt rolling like carpet to sea,
a minefield, how could it be?
April 30, 1975
Saigon, my capital
wasn’t any safer than the bomb-studded villages
or the booby-strapped highways
There were tanks all over town and corpses in the streets
and a decapitated heads hung to dry on barbed wires
as the April days grew hotter
like an oven, us inside with the enemies
strange, hideous flags whipping the heated air into
submission
streets of carrion convulsed, parliaments kneeled
papers like wingtorn pigeons fluttered in battered peace.
The walls of our city crumpled
home, like a sitting mother hen
folded on itself
feathers fluffing, panic-clucking
…coocooroo, coocooroo
our once-safe nest ripped, bereft
It's May, June...then suddenly we packed our bags
no woolen caps, scarves, socks,
stealing out like thieves with tiny bundles
mutely, softly, careful, careful
the transported treasures were
ourselves, vestiges of the upright persons
forced into fetal position, regressed to apes, forsaken
baboons deeply marooned
in a fallen city
shrouded in blood
to the borders to the horrors
of open sea, flattened inside boat’s bottom
even babies, mere suckling mouths and thrusting fists were
getting bolder
above heads stars, below boards hope
mothers waged their children’s lives on ocean waves
but would not waive their rights
for a better life, may Buddha and all the Gods bless her.
I had with me a Pan Am bag
Two, three underwear, a set of change
My toothbrush, of course I needed it
My diary, I'll shred when the time comes
We shouldn't hold hands like one family
Kept still and mute, our cone heads low on faces
Father looked pathetic in his black Pajamas
Like a peasant disguised as city folk
Mother's skin of white moon color
her butt too fat and round, a woodblock
Her chestnut-filled eyes stricken in imagined horror
the guarded roads, the combed sea
border patrols with black guns, barrels aiming
The boat too small for so many people all wanted to board
The waves too large for so many children all wanted to cry
A rim of horizon like a cauldron lid closed on a depthless
blue surface
And our family and others like ants desperate to climb out
alive.
However
We dreamed too large and hoped too deep
for there wasn't a boat just like there wasn't a
helicopter
There were only people fleeing in the dark, rounded like scattered
ducks in the night, the barking of dogs and uniformed men, the frogs watching,
locusts rubbing
their hateful songs
And a man shouted, "Stop! or I'll shoot!"
The next school term in late September
was without Father. We grew up all of a sudden
in absence of Mother
she went looking for him
dangling on crowded inter-city bus with people hanging on all
sides
Baskets of goods piled high from mothers, sisters, wives
for prisoners
people against chickens
barb-wires around men
We couldn't go anywhere even in our minds
our books burned, our mouths chanting new slogans,
we danced to revolutionary songs and bowed to Ho like blinds,
hordes of fatherless children,
we danced , bloody scarves ‘round necks like nooses,
our mothers, too heartbroken to think of freedom,
aimlessly roamed the streets in search of loved ones
Tomorrow she might see him.
Tomorrow she might find which jail
They had him locked within.
And I took my diary out of my Pan Am bag to shred.
It was neither safe in between the pages nor elsewhere.
marionettes with strings behind curtains soaked red
we were stage props, state properties
we could either flee again or starved to death
feasting full on party slogans
heads lead-filled as if shot with thousands bullets
