Song for Sài Gòn
Sài Gòn was named after cotton
trees we don’t see growing up, only dense
heat that bears after the rain rush. We have our
sweetest time swimming in sewer water,
our skin brown earth harsh sun.
It’s the knowing we are invincible,
or we don’t care for the consequences.
*
Recess green. Sharp Santa Ana winds.
Vietnamese students laugh
when I pronounce Buddha wrong. Still,
Kenny plays tetherball with me. I ask
what “Mexican” means. He points.
*
I don’t remember what Sài Gòn
smells like anymore. California dry
as my two chapped lips, skin ripped
the way they tear my name. Here,
the rain does not give me a break.
*
The tubas scream too close
for comfort but the band marches
so I do too. Afternoons band kids curve
my snoring banging at drums squeaking
saxophones. The school years bleed
steady, Californian fog hazy.
*
Last night of childhood, we line
our marbles on the street. A flick
at the right angle, I can disperse
all 8. My friend lets me borrow his marbles
one last time. Squatting, back hunched, I lose
to the sewer grates. Sorry. I’ll pay you back
when I return.
*
The city blinks awake, & I am
nobody. The pictures I take
are fuzzy, whizzes. Below, a bike
zooms by. The grey concrete remains
silent. I want to ask a passing train
to take me home.
*
I have dreams
where I am falling.
It is built into us
to be prey to
gravity. Rootless,
I cannot sink.