When A Country Is At War We Are Little People
Casually on the blue couch you mention a stray
bullet shot your grandfather
dead. We burn gloss paper
for the ghosts. What do we do for
the living?
*
How many childhoods do we lose? War
kills even our chances
to stay. Overnight we leave
by plane. I am orphaned still
of land by planes.
*
Your walloping husky refuses to leave
the house waiting for your father. You too,
wait. The house burns.
Your dog dies.
The sky is red
that night.
By Phương Uyên Huỳnh Võ
Biography:
Phương Uyên Huỳnh Võ is a poet from Anaheim, California and Sài Gòn, Việt Nam. Her work has been featured in diaCritics, Acid Verse, and Loves Me Zine. She is an alumna of Roots. Wounds. Words, Kenyon Review Workshops, and Fulbright. In her free time, Phương likes to play piano, sing songs on repeat, and laugh with friends. She currently resides in Long Beach, CA, land of the Tongva and Kizh people.
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