Sons Afar
I wash my face
along the river's bruised lip,
carrying blood of those
split open by war.
I dream of undulating
paddy fields from homeland
with eyes wide open
by the moonlit minefields.
Seven seas away
bent over a bowl, my mother
is slicing gourds
slender as river snakes.
Rolling her tongue,
as tireless as worn prayer beads
felt in aching fingers.
Let him live, God, she pleads,
take me instead!
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