The title you happened to
retrieve from a dream
where everyone spoke Vietnamese
and wasn’t hungry.
To dream in your Mother Tongue
and stuffed,
consider it a success;
regardless of what it means.
Holy Mother in the tummy
Her pepper-salt hair
your most trusted omen,
as She lifts the smoke curtain, reveals
a burnt-down house.
You watch as
She licks it back to life.
Licking its back
to life
Holy Mother in the tummy
She won’t let you know when
Her blood pressure hits fourteen, but
instead, asks: can you make bread?
as you’re both stuck at home during quarantine.
You say: no, we cannot bake bread with
only recipes and not enough heat.
She says: we need bigger oven.
You say: no, we need bigger fire.
Holy Mother in the tummy
Your Mother understands
when you say:
to love with only love,
She seconds:
to hurt with what we’ve left
over the years,
and you third:
to rage over everything when
the enemies are indistinguishable
you both fourth:
wrath: to love with empty bellies.
Holy Mother in the tummy
A pack of pilgrims parting their
ways at the end of the desert.
Holy Mother in the tummy
Brave, brave children, you’ve made it
to the shore.
Holy Mother in the tummy
Love, your Mother says,
show them my Pacific Ocean.
Her pepper-salt hair
your most trusted omen.
Holy Mother in your country.
Mother out your memories,
feed them with guts,
set them into stone.
TAM NGUYEN is a poet and art writer, born and raised in the south end of Vietnam. His works appeared and are forthcoming on diaCRITICS, SOFTBLOW, Heavy Feather Review, Dryland, Overheard, among others. He also writes for Nhà Sàn Collective’s archival book projects in 2021.
