Homecoming
I know nothing of my father,
except he was a soldier from Georgia,
my mother thinks his last name's Johnson,
says I've got his eyes and mouth,
I'm Dep trai, handsome like him.
It doesn't matter, here,
I'm called Bui Doi, dust of life.
The neighbors whisper, Gai Diem, bar girl.
I don't believe that, she has pictures
of them laughing together.
After we returned from the New Economic Zone,
I sold cigarettes in the Saigon Marketplace,
polished my English with Western tourists.
Once, I thought I saw him face to face.
He placed coins in my hand for Marlboros,
then walked away.
Closing down, at dusk,
sweeping butts from my stall,
children pass by, chant,
Bui Doi, Bui Doi, blow away,
dust of life, blow away.
They say I should leave
for the land of mixed blood and light eyes
find my father, Johnson, from Georgia.
Maybe I'll go---
send color pictures back---
we're by a lake, a canoe
in the background, fishing poles in our hands
both of us the same height now,
his arm around my shoulder.
I imagine us squinting into the sun,
if not for that, they'd be able to see--
our eyes, the same shade of green.
by Contributing Poet Laurie Kuntz Copyright © 2022
VWP 2022 First published VietnamWarPoetry.com
I know nothing of my father,
except he was a soldier from Georgia,
my mother thinks his last name's Johnson,
says I've got his eyes and mouth,
I'm Dep trai, handsome like him.
It doesn't matter, here,
I'm called Bui Doi, dust of life.
The neighbors whisper, Gai Diem, bar girl.
I don't believe that, she has pictures
of them laughing together.
After we returned from the New Economic Zone,
I sold cigarettes in the Saigon Marketplace,
polished my English with Western tourists.
Once, I thought I saw him face to face.
He placed coins in my hand for Marlboros,
then walked away.
Closing down, at dusk,
sweeping butts from my stall,
children pass by, chant,
Bui Doi, Bui Doi, blow away,
dust of life, blow away.
They say I should leave
for the land of mixed blood and light eyes
find my father, Johnson, from Georgia.
Maybe I'll go---
send color pictures back---
we're by a lake, a canoe
in the background, fishing poles in our hands
both of us the same height now,
his arm around my shoulder.
I imagine us squinting into the sun,
if not for that, they'd be able to see--
our eyes, the same shade of green.
by Contributing Poet Laurie Kuntz Copyright © 2022
VWP 2022 First published VietnamWarPoetry.com
Bio: Laurie Kuntz is a widely published and award-winning poet. She has been nominated for a Pushcart and Best of the Net prize. She has published two poetry collections (The Moon Over My Mother’s House, Finishing Line Press, Somewhere in the Telling, Mellen Press), two chapbooks (Simple Gestures, Texas Review, Women at the Onsen, Blue Light Press). Her 5th poetry collection, Talking Me off the Roof, is forthcoming from Kelsay Press in late 2022. Many of her poems are a direct result of working with refugees in refugee camps soon after the Vietnam War years. Recently retired, she lives in an endless summer state of mind. Visit her at:
https://lauriekuntz.myportfolio.com
https://lauriekuntz.myportfolio.com
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