Home

is your mother’s hand

spreading soft butter on your bread

and as your half-dead morning eyes are not looking, she sneaks

a green apple into your lunch box because apples are healthy.

Have you eaten?

What did you have for dinner?

Home is your mother’s kitchen:

you drooling fools suffocating

in the sweet scent of honey roasted duck

whose shiny brown skin burns

your eyes, your mouths greedy to satisfy

the hunger that brings your mother back

to Hanoi 1976 thời bao cấp—I got a lion

in my stomach and so did millions of hungry people.

It growled. Growl

louder than thunder.

It cried. Cry

begging for a piece of meat, vomiting

at the stench of mouldy rice and rancid fat.

Your recipe: Roasted salmon with broccoli.

Summer 2018 smells like ocean

splashing from your eyes,

your lips utter words

seasoned with salt.

You whine about your hunger

but your sister finds no lion in your stomach—

only a black dog

barking

inside in your head.

It growls. Growl

louder than thunder.

It cries. Cry

begging for the heart to be fed,

for the stomach is full

but the heart is starving.

Don’t go to bed with an empty stomach.

Eat well!