i. Làng
We sit under wet bamboo covering. Fingers stained from
fish sauce and chili oil. Our heavy breath rolls off the
surface of our tongue: finally filling nostrils
with something other than the smell of rotten eggs
emitting from a murky river father laid our little basket boat upon.
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ii. Chicken Lady
They called her the chicken lady, and her cracked hands
speak the truth.
Mother tries to hide decades of exhaustion
beneath raw calluses and open wounds
beneath dirty woven aprons,
but her bloodshot eyes,
so red like the hoa mộc miên
mother places amidst strands of sleek grey hair,
speaks the truth.
Mother tries to tell me she is not hungry,
but her rumbling stomach and
waist so thin like the bed mats
made of pale-colored reeds
speaks the truth.
I wonder why mother is always hungry
when I am always full.
* this got published
