Memory of a Meeting at a
Coffeeshop in Saigon
The tropical glare squats at the
edge of the shade,
studying arcs traced by our
coffeecups
in the rise and fall between crude
wooden tables
and our lips. Our rhythms are
regular as heartbeats.
Overhead, coconuts are swelling to
self-sacrifice.
We're taking a break from history.
All the singers in the boom-box
are maidens wailing for soldiers,
soldiers wailing for maidens;
there's no telling which war is in
which song;
the same enemy keeps changing uniforms.
Jagged bits of your unknown
father's face
keep falling out of disoriented
features.
I try to fit them together,
as I try to assemble the words I
know
in sentences and reshape them to my
tongue.
When you talk the words dash out
like small birds
and
your hands swoop after them like birds of prey,
a quickness acquired from years of
street-life,
selling peanuts and yourself and
cadging petty coins.
What will it be like in the country
of my waking,
the country of your dreams?
When will you wake up there?
Will you wonder, like Chuang-tzu,
whether the dream was before or
after the waking?
You search my round eyes and long
nose
for pieces that will fit your face.
Every mei (your name for us
means "beautiful",
and we are as beautiful and cruel
as desire)
is a father in your eyes. Listen,
when I smile, it means I have no
face to lose
or share.
After the sweet coffee, the
shopkeeper
brings a jar of bitter Chinese tea.
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