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VIETNAM  WAR  POETRY
​
z.m. quynh 

                        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 
                        ​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​​
 

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