My used Corolla is packed with
necessities–
A baby rocker, bassinet, diaper bag,
stroller, pacifier.
A beautiful wife and a happy baby.
A backpack filled with copies
of my first poetry book.
My cousins take turns
cradling our baby girl,
cooing & laughing,
taking pictures with her.
I give each aunt and uncle
a copy of Gruel.
They smile, thank me politely.
Then the questions fall
from their lips like a house of cards.
Who is the publisher?
How many books have been printed?
What percentage are you making
with each copy sold?
Why don’t the poems rhyme?
The old wound returns.
I don’t want to be your doctor,
your lawyer, your engineer.
I want you to love me for who I am,
your sister’s son.
I say to them,
“It’s not about the money.
I do it for love,
for our family, for survival.”
They look at each other in silence
as if I know nothing about survival,
about military boots snapping
rib cages, stomping on broken hands,
about eating whatever you could find,
crickets, lizards, silk worms,
a delicacy in those hungry days and nights,
about being tied up like a hog on a stick
about to be butchered.
I know nothing about the heart
rushing with blood
when news broke of the deaths
of loved ones, my mother among them.
Dispersed like dust,
they walked in the jungle nights
where stars got so bright they could almost
pluck them. They slept on the dirt
of refugee camps in Thailand.
One morning they were picked up
by freedom bird and dropped
somewhere north of Boston
with nothing but a will to survive
and a dream for their children.
Their eyes gazed up at the skyscrapers.
They took in the red-yellow-green traffic
lights, the honking of cars and taxi cabs,
the black smoke and grey sky,
the pale-skinned giants busy crossing
noisy streets and gleaming sidewalks.
My uncles and aunts thought to themselves.
How do we farm on this endless slab
of concrete? How will we feed our family
and take care of the young ones?
How will we survive in this brave new world?
