mother and father thought
they escaped the whistling missiles
but found it hitched a ride
a parasite
clawing out of their stomachs and into their throats
bursting through their mouths
to roar at each other
under the table
their arguments, war itself
their bombs shake the house
under
neath
bà nội’s table
i hide
and in safe shelter
she whispers of my inheritance of blood
that doesn’t flow—
but forks serpentine
resistance that hisses
of my great aunt made divine—
when the soldiers came in to burn and steal
she refused
to kneel
in that country grocery store
body straight and proud
lifeless steel
found her bravery no shield
unzipped her flesh
spilled her onto the floor
but never as tragedy
in our family’s memory her blood hissed and bit
slithered across space and time
to carry her fire, her knowledge
to the small ember bà nội tended
coiled in windbreak
against shrapnel
piercing night’s veil
exploding
in showers—
sparking across the sky
attic moon is an emerging Vietnamese American poet, filmmaker, and social worker. Her work explores the intersections of identity, psyche, and narrative, weaving the intimate with the mythic. Her poetry has appeared in The Catalyst, and her film, Asian American Pizza, won Best Documentary Short at the Chinatown Film Festival. She is currently finalizing her debut poetry manuscript, Gravity.
