| by Duy Duc
At one thirty-five in the
Morning. Family is safely asleep;
Husband snores loudly in strange
Rhythms; daughter giggles in
Girlish fantasy dreams;
Son mumbles gibberish, not in
Vietnamese, never in Vietnamese.
The sewing machine and I
Converse in our own language.
Varroomm?
Sounds of thunder roaring,
Lightning clash, monsoon rain cutting through
Humid air in the field,
Freeing the lung?
Varroomm?
White thread lends itself to
Soft fabric turning raw cloth into a
Dress to be displayed at Macy?s,
Selling for no less than
Eighty dollars, seventy-nine dollars and
Forty cents more than my
Pay for making it?
Varroomm?
The motorbike engine roars as
Future husband clad in army uniform
Steps hard on the kicker?release?
Take off?and surprise me with a
Ride along scenic Perfume River, and
Picnic in the park, and finally a
Kiss, the first of many to come, the
Only one I ever remember?
?the Grandfather clock, grandfatherly indeed,
Interrupts our work, our
Conversation with punctual chime
To remind me of my bedtime.
I pay no attention
Because I am a sewing woman.
Time is but needle and thread;
No interruption to cut off the
Hands of Fate--
My feet are steady and stubborn on the paddle?
Varroomm?
Sounds of American and Viet Cong
Sub-machine guns singing
Like in traditional courtship rituals--
Frenzied bullets dancing metres
Above the jungle floor
Carpeted with rust-coloured leaves--
The dye of many bloods intermixed?
Varroomm?
Ocean waves crash against the
Side of the fishing boat
Giving itself to the mercy of
The Sea, intervention of God,
Goodness of Buddha:
I lose my direction, balance, consciousness?
Varroomm?
Needle punctures countless holes
In newly finished dress:
Complete, beautiful modern design,
Worthy of Macy?s Department Store.
Grandfather chimes again--
Stern get always gentle and loving;
But I hold life in my hands
Because I am a sewing woman
And the conversation is good
In this room, this night,
I am a sewing woman
And time is but needle and thread. |