Split
Cathy Linh Che
I see my
mother at thirteen
in a
village so small,it's never given a name.
Monsoon season drying up--
steam lifting in full-bodied waves.
She chops corn for the hogs,
her hair dipping to the small of her back
as if dipped in black
and polished to a shine.
She wears a side-part
that splits her hair
into two uneven planes.
They come to watch her,
Americans, Marines, just boys,
eighteen or nineteen.
With scissor-fingers,
they snip the air,
repeat cut,
point at their helmets
and then
at her hair.
All they
want is a small lock.What does she say
to her
mother
to make
her so afraid?Days later
she will be sent away
to the
city for safekeeping.
She will
return home
only once to be given away
to my
father.only once to be given away
Her hair
was dark, washed,
and uncut.
copyright Cathy
Linh Che
Talk
for my brother
The New York rain
keeps me inside.
Remember Hong Kong,
how dense the air,
how hard to breathe
inside buildings
of blue-green glass?
Here, the rain sounds
like paper tearing,
then crumpled.
How do I find my way back
to your fridge, always stocked
with Gatorade?
Today, did you call
just to talk? It seemed
we had nothing to say.
You are a coat
I want to turn inside-out
to see where the silk frays,
in the arms, along the back,
your massive shoulders.
When did you get so big?
There’s a picture of us.
I was four. I held you in my lap.
You were half my size,
so heavy, even then.
We used to stay up talking
across the room.
I read books by lamplight.
You turned away
when you wanted to sleep,
your radio by your ear,
a song by Aaliyah,
in my dream, repeating,
Come back to me
Cathy Linh Che is a
Vietnamese American poet born in Los Angeles in 1980. Her parents immigrated to America in 1976, after spending a year in a refugee camp in the Philippines. Her first book of poems, winner
the 2012 Kundiman Poetry Prize, is forthcoming from Alice James Books in 2014. She is also
co-editing an anthology of poetry and prose from the children of the Vietnam War
called Inheriting the War
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