At the War Remnants Museum, Saigon
I am a remnant too, spat out of that war.
Nothing left of me is lithe,
and a double-headed dog now follows me:
two cancers fed by Army herbicides.
In the Agent Orange photo gallery,
a visual assault of birth defects. Images
of infants, from parents sprayed on in the villages:
This blind one displays a mushroom head.
Another has a micro cranium. His mouth and eyes protrude.
Conjoined twins share a pelvis.
Two girls pose, hands projecting from their shoulders.
This toddler tries to smile, his face mid-melt,
one eye where his cheek could be.
And mothers comfort babies paralyzed.
Troy’s, and Goya’s, horrors breed with Hiroshima’s,
as each child wheezes, I am Legion.
I twist, being both voyeur and victim,
while a hot mortar round swells upward in my throat.
Arriving home at customs, I am asked,
Do you have anything to declare? No.
Except—I’ve sewn a few innocents beneath my skin
to cradle as we share a bed at night.
by Contributing Poet Eric Forsbergh Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Into Hanoi Again
Last time I saw you,
your temples and your gracious lakes,
I flew third seat in an American bomber
above you, fifty years ago. At low altitude,
children could easily identify our shape.
Sunday, girls take selfies at the park.
Their silk pastel panels waft and curl around a breath of air.
In the pagoda, silent monks in bare feet
tend to offerings: flowers,
money, oranges stacked in cones.
Incense sticks smoke ghost blossoms in the partial dark.
Rows of shoes get left outside the door: small sins,
while you carry in some greater weight.
Wood thresholds built high, you must bow your head
to watch the edge. This way Siddhartha knows of you.
I kneel among the pilgrims and the families.
Elevated for effect, candlelit,
a trio of golden Buddhas glows over us.
Their heavy-lidded eyes demonstrate tranquility
smoother than the cool stone floor.
John McCain, three limbs broken from ejection,
parachuted himself into this pagoda’s shallow lake
as his aircraft blew up in the street.
A clutch of passersby lifted him to shore.
We stroll past the statue on his spot:
an aluminum bird risen through the surface.
He inaugurated it before he revisited his prison,
the same colonial compound of thick stone, where,
for use on locals captured from resistance cells,
the French had left behind a guillotine.
by Contributing Poet Eric Forsbergh Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
I am a remnant too, spat out of that war.
Nothing left of me is lithe,
and a double-headed dog now follows me:
two cancers fed by Army herbicides.
In the Agent Orange photo gallery,
a visual assault of birth defects. Images
of infants, from parents sprayed on in the villages:
This blind one displays a mushroom head.
Another has a micro cranium. His mouth and eyes protrude.
Conjoined twins share a pelvis.
Two girls pose, hands projecting from their shoulders.
This toddler tries to smile, his face mid-melt,
one eye where his cheek could be.
And mothers comfort babies paralyzed.
Troy’s, and Goya’s, horrors breed with Hiroshima’s,
as each child wheezes, I am Legion.
I twist, being both voyeur and victim,
while a hot mortar round swells upward in my throat.
Arriving home at customs, I am asked,
Do you have anything to declare? No.
Except—I’ve sewn a few innocents beneath my skin
to cradle as we share a bed at night.
by Contributing Poet Eric Forsbergh Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Into Hanoi Again
Last time I saw you,
your temples and your gracious lakes,
I flew third seat in an American bomber
above you, fifty years ago. At low altitude,
children could easily identify our shape.
Sunday, girls take selfies at the park.
Their silk pastel panels waft and curl around a breath of air.
In the pagoda, silent monks in bare feet
tend to offerings: flowers,
money, oranges stacked in cones.
Incense sticks smoke ghost blossoms in the partial dark.
Rows of shoes get left outside the door: small sins,
while you carry in some greater weight.
Wood thresholds built high, you must bow your head
to watch the edge. This way Siddhartha knows of you.
I kneel among the pilgrims and the families.
Elevated for effect, candlelit,
a trio of golden Buddhas glows over us.
Their heavy-lidded eyes demonstrate tranquility
smoother than the cool stone floor.
John McCain, three limbs broken from ejection,
parachuted himself into this pagoda’s shallow lake
as his aircraft blew up in the street.
A clutch of passersby lifted him to shore.
We stroll past the statue on his spot:
an aluminum bird risen through the surface.
He inaugurated it before he revisited his prison,
the same colonial compound of thick stone, where,
for use on locals captured from resistance cells,
the French had left behind a guillotine.
by Contributing Poet Eric Forsbergh Copyright © 2026
VWP 2026 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Bio: Eric Forsbergh is a US Navy veteran of Vietnam, having served on the flight deck of two aircraft
carriers during three cruises, and in Da Nang, Vietnam. He has contracted two cancers (multiple
myeloma, and bladder cancer) from extended Agent Orange exposure, as well as from frequent
bare-handed use of benzene to clean aircraft. Benzene was later labeled as a potent carcinogen.
He is a lifelong member of the Poetry Society of Virginia, and has published over 100 poems,
including in JAMA. He is a retired dentist.
carriers during three cruises, and in Da Nang, Vietnam. He has contracted two cancers (multiple
myeloma, and bladder cancer) from extended Agent Orange exposure, as well as from frequent
bare-handed use of benzene to clean aircraft. Benzene was later labeled as a potent carcinogen.
He is a lifelong member of the Poetry Society of Virginia, and has published over 100 poems,
including in JAMA. He is a retired dentist.
Except where otherwise attributed, all pages & content herein
Copyright © 2014 - 2025 Paul Hellweg VietnamWarPoetry.com All rights reserved
Westerly, Rhode Island, USA