![]() Peauladd Huy was born in Phnom Penh. Her latest work, published by Connotation Press: An Online Artifact was nominated for the Sundress "Best of the Net," the Dzanc "Best of the Net," and the Pushcart Prize. And with deep gratitude to Connotation Press she’ll have a book, forthcoming soon. A-mericus The earth opens. The earth closes Its double doors like a tomb Preservation; its past Companions. Dark from the foothill, running Along the scrub weeds to the fruit woods turning After the wooden houses, practically The whole cluster thrown back the vanishing In rapid bloom, more ruined than blooming Than the coloring, the way the bright petals Feathering off, the way the Argus once flocking Off those couldn’t be salvaged, I hear the loosening Light in the canopy, the great fig Sanctuary dismantling From deep shadow, the ancients moaning The descending, and the losses’ Asylum thrown in fleeing splendor-- I was young. I’d asked for flight—more than once I have stood in their threshold Reaching in, calculating with conviction The randomnesses of my two hands to the multitude Colors still in light, still not yet assimilated Into the earth Mounds, each bloom-- Autumn. The New Jersey tropical’s almost bare Inside the frosted glass, but for a few lilies Uprooted earlier-- Then outside the season’s arc, I watch the falling pattern Themselves at the perpetualness of a sufferance, the winded; its history Of travel at one arrival of an ending, ground. Grounded, like detritus gives the forest floor This morning, alone, I watch a young boy raise his hands to the fallen In driftage, turning over to the rest, scattering the ground As if giving a way home. Night Boat Is it the moon you hear swimming Slowly in me? A river’s flooded; isn’t it Drowning? Sinking like a stone Skipped to plummet Beneath the waves Over the ragged body sinks. Sink. I know where the bottom is. It is dark, thick and taken The many hands below surface (Skimming) as if blind I am searching for vision; feeling out the fog So thick no tree can rise. For the Rest of the Children: Cry if You Must Between nightmares. No one will hear in this dark. It’s thus as I now stand, however Then I dropped quickly to my knees. I cried for mercy. I cried for my mother and father. I cried for justice That had denied me, and still I couldn’t help but hoped For them. At the time, not much I wanted And not much I knew of war, Words about war, about America, about freedom To bomb, about the Vietcong, about the Khmer Rouge And their purpose to slaughter because my immediate elders had been scattered Detained, or sent so far into the rice fields. There was no way to know then Life had given me death After death until the rest are now Captives in my dream of dream. There are so many. To count a million is hard Yet two, for a second grader. It’s getting crowded. It’s getting hot with all the angel faces Burning before me. Naturally, I was scared, Didn’t know what to do, and couldn’t Find proper words because So many were put in my mouth. I went quiet I went still I went numb I went dumb Until my baby cried. I wake up and it’s still dark: Everything is the same, pale curtains Breathing calmly, the door is open—as it must After the war, so as no one is left out or in-- But no one follows through. Don’t be sad. My purpose is not here. Though, the first few times, I didn’t know what to feel Or what to do with all their breaths floating me. It’s quiet outside Again something I am drawn to. There’s just nothing I can do: I must go wherever They blow on me. So back to the fog, To the millions lost Still searching throats.
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