October 1966:
Twilight draped its ao dai
over the rice fields.
 
Two American ships patrolled
the My Tho River. A Viet Cong
fleet ambushed them
 
from behind. Grenades
detonated in the water.
Missiles struck
 
thermal shadows. Both sides
radioed for help. A helicopter
attack squad called
 
the Seawolves descended
with torpedoes, blasted
the Viet Cong battalion
 
until bones couldn’t be
separated from the lilies.
I woke, and there he was—
 
on top of me, groaning
low like a ceiling fan,
his blades cleaving
 
the night. I woke and saw
a child with my face
leap into the crossfire,
 
collecting what remained
of its dead before
the cannibals advanced.