the general's visit
soft foam slippers for his feet
a bowl of rice steamed, marinated pork ribs
clean sheets
a bed in a room where the window faces east
the guest becomes the king
his limp is pronounced
his smile crooked, generous
his hands land firm and gentle
on the host’s back
"remember the time..." he begins
the room is transfixed
though I am small and limber
i can barely keep up
his steps are still large and looming
his cane focused and adamant
the hero is sentimental
he's driven to see his men
the past is the past
dead men tell no tales
but he is still alive
and until he meets his final day
his lips siphon tales
not of what was lost
but what was gained
the birth of his lieutenant's sixth child
the first of his men to own a house
his brother’s new business
the first to line the streets of Bolsa
i clamor alongside him
rejoice in the cà phê s?a dá, set on his table
"ah General," the restaurant owner says
patrons fight over his bill before the food is ordered
the check has already been paid
and for me too? I ask
i want the crab marinated in salt and pepper
don't be greedy, he says
these are offerings
on an altar still living
not for me but for the things we lost
we all lost
when our country fell
someday you'll understand
the hero reminisces
a fresh spring roll perched in his hands
every bite is mixed with handshakes
offers for a temporary bed facing the east
my wife and I will sleep in the living room
you take our bed
i saw you on tv
says a friend
who hasn't
the image is transfixed
our hero villainized
a generations' suffering minimized
the general shrugs, "That is all they can understand"
but not all of them, he says
not their soldiers, their men
the pretty face men, the scarred men
the ones that lost their friends
they understand
the hero returns home
his friends sigh
their homes have been blessed
their businesses will prosper
the lucky dragon has done his dance
his limp a badge of honor
year after year the general returns
soft foam slippers for his feet
a bowl of rice steamed, marinated pork ribs
clean sheets
a bed in a room where the window faces east
this is how you welcome a hero
if only the Americans could do the same
for their men, he muses
and I nod like I understand
i did not know him then
i know him now
a dragon, a hero, a man.
by Contributing Poet z.m. quynh Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published by VietnamWarPoetry.com
soft foam slippers for his feet
a bowl of rice steamed, marinated pork ribs
clean sheets
a bed in a room where the window faces east
the guest becomes the king
his limp is pronounced
his smile crooked, generous
his hands land firm and gentle
on the host’s back
"remember the time..." he begins
the room is transfixed
though I am small and limber
i can barely keep up
his steps are still large and looming
his cane focused and adamant
the hero is sentimental
he's driven to see his men
the past is the past
dead men tell no tales
but he is still alive
and until he meets his final day
his lips siphon tales
not of what was lost
but what was gained
the birth of his lieutenant's sixth child
the first of his men to own a house
his brother’s new business
the first to line the streets of Bolsa
i clamor alongside him
rejoice in the cà phê s?a dá, set on his table
"ah General," the restaurant owner says
patrons fight over his bill before the food is ordered
the check has already been paid
and for me too? I ask
i want the crab marinated in salt and pepper
don't be greedy, he says
these are offerings
on an altar still living
not for me but for the things we lost
we all lost
when our country fell
someday you'll understand
the hero reminisces
a fresh spring roll perched in his hands
every bite is mixed with handshakes
offers for a temporary bed facing the east
my wife and I will sleep in the living room
you take our bed
i saw you on tv
says a friend
who hasn't
the image is transfixed
our hero villainized
a generations' suffering minimized
the general shrugs, "That is all they can understand"
but not all of them, he says
not their soldiers, their men
the pretty face men, the scarred men
the ones that lost their friends
they understand
the hero returns home
his friends sigh
their homes have been blessed
their businesses will prosper
the lucky dragon has done his dance
his limp a badge of honor
year after year the general returns
soft foam slippers for his feet
a bowl of rice steamed, marinated pork ribs
clean sheets
a bed in a room where the window faces east
this is how you welcome a hero
if only the Americans could do the same
for their men, he muses
and I nod like I understand
i did not know him then
i know him now
a dragon, a hero, a man.
by Contributing Poet z.m. quynh Copyright © 2015
VWP 2015 First published by VietnamWarPoetry.com
Bio: z.m. quynh huddles in deep east oakland in a room tinged with blue
nursing calloused hands worn down from the chronic transcription of restless dreams.
past lives have included scattered jaunts through urban minefields with each misstep
hinting at a life less easily mapped out by this amateur cartographer.
irrationally drawn to moving mountains one stone at a time,
quynh has tackled the tasks of labor organizer, juvenile hall literacy coordinator,
artistic director of a guerrilla feminist theatre troupe, mother, mentor and best friend
(all rolled up in one), civil rights advocate, guardian ad litem for foster care youth,
waitstaff at one too many late night diners (hey…free food - what?), slam poet,
urban horticulturalist, visual junk artist, passionate lover, and cocktail server/
candy salesperson at all night rave parties (hungry people pay $5 for candy bars!).
The Sea Is Ours will be quynh's debut in spec fic.
zmquynh.com
nursing calloused hands worn down from the chronic transcription of restless dreams.
past lives have included scattered jaunts through urban minefields with each misstep
hinting at a life less easily mapped out by this amateur cartographer.
irrationally drawn to moving mountains one stone at a time,
quynh has tackled the tasks of labor organizer, juvenile hall literacy coordinator,
artistic director of a guerrilla feminist theatre troupe, mother, mentor and best friend
(all rolled up in one), civil rights advocate, guardian ad litem for foster care youth,
waitstaff at one too many late night diners (hey…free food - what?), slam poet,
urban horticulturalist, visual junk artist, passionate lover, and cocktail server/
candy salesperson at all night rave parties (hungry people pay $5 for candy bars!).
The Sea Is Ours will be quynh's debut in spec fic.
zmquynh.com
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