Vietnam haunts me—or at least the thought of being there,
high above the Jackfruit and Sub-Nosed monkeys, in a Huey,
picking off the ants below.
So now I create mobiles out of driftwood—
In part to hang my nightmares by a fishing wire.
The wood sheds density over time.
With enough of a breeze, it rattles just right:
click clack…click clack…click clack…
lamenting the madrigal of a monk’s bamboo flute.
Petrified. Sculpted. Transmuted.
The wind nudges the chimes, like a mother
kisses the forehead of her newborn.
Dug into the jungle, I see my enemy.
He is panting; he is slobbering like a thirsty boar—
a ringlet of heat rising from his nostrils.
The field blistering with the naked adrenaline of bloodlust.
So today I walk the shoreline, looking for washed up tree parts.
The ones I am searching for are made smooth and dynamic
by the relentless pressure of the tides.