A different man, long ago

thinks about settlers, thinks about change

Tonight, Hanoi seems deadly silent. Perhaps everyone is mourning too.

i feel my mother's figure growing above me

with every one of my words that she doesn't listen

you yourself love to pretend you remember your own birthplace

I always knew my mother was a writer.

She hails it as her best skill.

Slick gray flesh. Slippery yellow flesh. Powdery white flesh. Three generations, one shrimp.

"Green, they'd be green, just how my own grandpa used to have 'em," he sighs.

The last move (the best move, the worst move, The Move) was almost four years ago

From the 200 billion trillion stars in the galaxy, 

my father gripped one

There is nothing profound about any of this. There is everything beautiful about all of this.

As we approach the river, the sight between its two bridges is my worst nightmare.

With plates of food in hand, you are forced to greet vaguely familiar faces.

"Bye," she says. "Love you!" 

I freeze, almost tripping down the steps. 

A falling star taught her how to wish, but a falling star apple trunk taught her something else. 

You listen for pleasure to some songs, for pain to others, Robin had said. Which was this? 

The story my grandfather told continues to shape me today. 

Below

the cherry blossom clouds

I remember

That sun-kissed evening in 1914

for two cents, the man 

answering will reach into the ocean

Air sticks to my skin, 

like honey. mosquitos circle my ankles and wrists

These are the scents I will take with me when I leave this house.

i have come back

to the village i swore i would never see again

There’s a moment in kindergarten when I realize that the other grandparents don’t smile.

We walked along the small terrace of grass, the blinding heat of the sun forgotten . . .

She spoke with her hands, weaving stories out of air and breathing life into them . . .

1. Come On Eileen, Dexys Midnight Runners

What can I say? As soon as this comes on you're grabbing my hands and spinning me around with that beautiful smile on your face and that joyful laugh rising in your throat.

You always liked to watch the trains as they passed by, one after another, right on schedule. You liked the whooshing sound of the breaks as the train slowed into the station, and the whirring of the engine as it started up again.