Homeland

Originally published in ink Magazine of the Vancouver Public Library

Around the streets at night

on a Honda moped

helmet strap tight on chin

the river breezes blow the dusty leaves

of the resin trees along District 1.

Standing like solemn guards of the city, they

watch over

empty food stalls with their owners

in a haze of slumber

on the Formica table,

beside the bubbling hủ tiếu broth.

The leaves drop a pitying gaze

to the night street sweeper

sweeping trash from the narrowest alleys

with cracked-painted houses no more than six feet wide

to the main streets shimmering under the lights

of caviar-scented, gold-latticed hotels

with red carpet imprinted rose pumps.

The branches don’t wince

when they watch over

a rat scurrying under a heap

of boba tea leftovers and fried fish balls

dripped in MSG-filled soy sauce

left on the grass

not far from the Gucci glass showcases of Diamond Plaza.

The petals of resin flowers don’t wilt

immediately upon landing

on a sweaty uniform shirt

belonging to a middle school kid

who slept behind the motorcycle, on his mother’s back

on his way home from extra classes.

High up above the streetlights

the wind carried words from the trees

to ask me if I would still love

amid this hubbub of a so-called Beta city

tipping southeast of the Indochina Peninsula

with its name stemming from cotton trees

where the word “hoa lệ”

“opulent” in Vietnamese

describes all its 2,061 km2

“hoa”- flowers - for the rich

“lệ” – tears – for the poor.

I whisper among the breezes,

“This has always been my home,

and forever will be.”

Saigon, May 2021