|
You are on the ocean
in a boat with a broken motor.
A concentration camp back home in the Delta.
Bamboo poles for beds above swamp floors.
You hear that freedom is in California to the northeast.
You are fleeing Vietnam,
where police snatched your neighbor,
the school teacher,
from his home,
tied him to a tree,
and mashed his head into bananas.
The small, humble boat drifts
like debris in a vast solar system.
Beads of sweat and water on your tan skin.
Your dark hair, protruding ribs.
You are a strong swimmer, so you are the one
who dives into the water
once, twice, twenty seven.
Your uncle, among the refugees,
fastens a rope around your waist for you to tug
at the first glimpse of sharks.
Your skillful hands moving quickly,
trying to repair the motor that has
broken for the fourth time this week.
You are holding your breath for minutes at a time,
the sea salt stinging your eyes,
sharks motioning toward you in silence.
No more water amongst so much.
Hunger scrapes your stomach like spikes,
throat swells with thirst.
Ships pass and see you and the other refugees,
but do not stop.
You silently make your peace with God.
Sunrays ricochet off your Mother Mary medallion.
As you mouth the rosary over and over,
like the waves that beat against shores that you can't see,
as we forgive those who trespass against us.
It is not your time to die out there
under the sun, cradled by the waves.
For mirrored in your medallion
is an oil rig on route to Japan.
You and your uncle steer your dilapidated boat
directly in front of The Centrum Norway,
eyes reflecting hope,
but your expression says otherwise.
And Mother Mary smiles.
|
