1.

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Once, I was a child, then a whore. 

 

Distorted, fleeting colors a cuckoo 

becomes when strange men storm the hull, grabbing hold

of limbs, remnants, and various crickets

 

Within this Beneath 

that spanned fifteen feet, the faces of pirates were 

various and ruddy 

 

I am told mostly women and girls 

were bound with harsh rope around their 

little wrist bones

 

We all grew up 

with little wrist bones

 

// 

 

I saw seven men on the boat.…They cooked a lot of food for us. After we had eaten, everybody felt full and happy. We thought we had freedom….They took everybody’s gold jewelry, everything precious to us. My boat had three women and one girl. They kidnapped the girl. A man threw my daughter into the sea. I said please help her

 

//

 

I said we were forced

into impossible positions—

 

Beneath pressed weight

Between shrieks

Before & after showering

Before & after 

 

No

 

Our mothers, our brothers, our aunts

our saints 

could do nothing

 

I wonder from time to time, to whom 

do I owe this life

 

Dread, that lasting memoir

 

//

 

In my grandfather’s house are books of foreign letters. Novels. Magazines, like LIFE and TIME. These were prohibited by the government, given the risks of mind-body contamination. A little bullet of dung beetle, slipping from the grasp of a child—

 

What if a dissident thought could scurry off like that

 

Maybe I would’ve been born into a family 

of preachers, poets, or 

ornithologists 

 

//

 

The books were burned

The rice was steamed

The women were hospitable

 

When handed a bowl of rice by the eldest daughter, the starving

officer momentarily forgot his animosity

 

He ate his fill (it was good)

 

Then, remembering 

to whom his life was owed

 

He tossed her a phosphorescent grenade

 

//

 

In the morning, a rebuttal forms in the back 

of my throat, but when I open 

my mouth: only moths

 

Book covers, splayed at the foot of a wall

 

Their contents, burned

 

Remains, rippling like tattered flags

 

Once, I was a child who devoured books

with my brother on a mattress 

on the floor.

 

//

 

From time to time I wonder: was it my fault to put myself in that position beneath a long stressed note played in my grand-uncle’s house under his watch under his weight who is responsible for my family’s rescue who paid for my father’s life who paid for mine who is like God 

 

//

 

There was a time when I reveled in small 

pleasures, like unearthing a silver hand 

 

shovel from the dirt mound where I would 

squat to piss and play. Evidence someone was 

 

here before. To dig a hole and cover the names 

of faces with used soil.

 

//

 

From his apartment in Oakland, my brother keeps watch 

over a family of crows through a rigged-up telescope and feeds 

them nuts and grains, without which they would surely lack 

proper nutrients, their diets consisting mostly of what 

humans refuse and this humbles me—the feeding and care 

of the scorned who come to be extended family. They drop by 

from time to time, bearing gifts: a piece of torn cloth, an inch of 

woven bracelet, a zip tie, brilliant green plastic. I haven’t seen 

the birds myself, but I trust they are with him.

 

//

 

What I believe to be bad 

 

Omens are actually crows 

 

Actually ravens survive in the harshest climes 

 

I am coming to feed Elijah

 

A fugitive

 

Fleeing in the wilderness

 

I read somewhere, actually

 

I am a child 

 

Who cannot die anymore

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2.

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My father chose not to reveal his days

 

were dwindling—his ailments hidden

beneath a veneer

 

not of strength, but of kindness.

 

My God.

 

//

 

His body hid the aftermath

after salvation.

 

After salvation, 

we could only be good.

 

//

 

His body hung

 

for years it seemed

 

a comma between

 

maybe, maybe not

 

//

 

my mother only discovered, years later, the end, already written, in hospital records, my father had hidden, in the coat closet, a small box, a safe, to keep us safe, saved, archives, if you will, of a slow decline, this could be called human history, this could be called poor planning, then a hasty end, a rushed final line, my mother said, of his last breath, he sounded delirious, when she wheeled him to the surgery room, he would be given anesthesia to lose the feeling, he would lose consciousness, we would lose everything, he would never wake up, i miss him, his face, the long shadow of it, a voicemail, gently, Hi, con. he never said much, instead, i was startled in the night by a loud cry, my mother calling, on the phone, i could only hear, muffled sobs, a black-throated laughing-thrush, attempting to flee, my mother’s mouth, i was stuck, he was dying, i sat up, my head in my hands, my cell phone hot against my ear, my mother’s black throat, sobbing, it appears, there’s been a grave mistake, there’s been a grave, it appears like a black dash across the wet green earth, relief, is not the first room, one might expect to enter, and love is not the last, after hearing such news, perhaps, instead, an internal collapse of structures built into children, from the start, what a tragedy, we mislead children to believe, they will outlive their elders, we mislead children to believe we are elders, in fact, we are only children, subject to death, subjects in a long history of decline, children die, all the time, dying was not a mystery to me, but a fact, i knew, so suddenly, i dropped to my knees, 

 

relief 

 

descended like a dove, 

 

my father passed, my father passed, the test of time, how long can you wait, all my life, i’ve been waiting, for this moment, as soon as i learned he was sick, i held out my palms, hold me, i’m going home, i’m going to rescue you, father, i’m going to rescue you, said peter, not knowing he was denying his best friend, three times, the chance to weep, bitterly, i sat looking out the window of the car, my mother drove from SFO to the hospital, looking back, toward me my aunt said, she doesn’t understand—the end, i thought, after our long history, better be good, be good, i prayed, over his dying body, that day, at the funeral, i ate pâté chaud like it was a mistake, to be given this tiny body, when in fact, i was a beast, of monstrous proportions, so hungry, so i ate, and it was good, and that day, i excused myself to the bathroom like a young woman, in front of the mirror, i reapplied lip balm, beside my cousin Chị He, who taught me to dance, in fifth grade, to let go, to let my yes be yes, to Boyz II Men, like no one was watching, me, in her bedroom, i was alone, responsible for the first time, for my kindness to self, when i visited her, that first fatherless winter, home was a moving target, like those pesky mallards flying faster than my cursor could follow, in the 80s Nintendo game, Duck Hunt, you could see a whole flock of geese flying south, and by south, i mean LA, by LA, i mean Fountain Valley, the bánh mì there is excellent, usually we buy five loaves for the drive back north, but this time, only four, as my father died, i prayed, 

 

live! 

 

rescue him, my God, where have all the mallards gone, where have all the good boys gone, to be men, all the chrysanthemums must stay hidden, it’s not even winter, it’s the first sign of spring, my first memory of water, doesn’t even belong to me, in the fetal position, the first thing the dead see, is not a white haze, as commonly believed, but feathers, jet black plumes, i swear, i’ll believe it, when i see, through their eyes, the eyes of the dead, i can see nothing, impossible, said Mary Magdalene when she saw, whom she believed, was the gardener, clutching her savior’s torn robe, she must have smelled, something, minutes later, O my God, it’s you, it’s you, i can see clearly, i am yours, i am yes, you have come to me, a great kindness, in the bitter rain, there are only daffodils, and my dying body, beginning, the day i was born, i was nothing impressive, my first memory, being written by somebody else, in the archives of my mother’s womb, there are entire memoirs, of the dead, my father said, be not afraid, my father’s memory was thus kept, like a secret, from my family, comes a long lineage of erasers, look, now you see me, now you don’t, Jesus ascended, leaving nothing behind, my father came to me a great kindness, my father came to be, yes, my father was a good man, he wept, i kept saying yes, i confess, i’ve been hiding something, from you, my whole life, beneath the long shadow of your wing,

 

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3.

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Hovering, unnoticed, my father’s shadow passed 

before I could say thank you. I became a nightwatch, patient 

 

of the deep. Here, my father handed me a shell. Small but 

sturdy armor. He tucked me in—flesh, bones, binoculars—until I could hear 

 

no other shore. Somewhere, waves erode entire habitats 

of loss. Years passed like this: pressing my ear to the sand, pretending 

 

to read. I’d listen for my father’s footsteps, the yawn of the garage, 

a doorclap. The only point of return was a cypress tree that steadied 

 

me as I tossed his ashes over the Pacific. His face recollects 

like sediment. Chị He says there’s metal inside every relative 

 

and doors I rail against, knocking, knuckles 

bone-cold, trying to follow a family 

 

of ravens—their mournful calls, unearthly sounds

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