The Never‑ending End of the War

                                                 The Never‑ending End of the War

 My neighbor with a face behind the face like mine

 is walking through generations of rice fields.

 The rice is gone,

 the soil dried to a mosaic of crooked grins,

 and under it, layers of sediment, 

 and at the heart of everything,

 the dragon father, Lac‑Long‑Quan, 

 who left his sons divided

 into factions of the sea and sky.

 

 Echoes of old voices still reach here,

 but they're pitched as high as dog‑whistles ‑

 they don't vie with the crackle of stalks

 under plastic slippers.

 

 Friend, I can't imagine where you might be going,

 with a tread so light your bones could well be hollow

 on a day too still

 to stir the long white threads of your goatee,

 but walk carefully;                                                    

 the mines were planted on both sides.