Poem of the Week: Cathy Linh Che

 

          

   

Split      

 

I see my mother at thirteen

in a village so small,

it's never given a name.

Monsoon season drying up--

steam lifting in full-bodied waves.

She chops corn for the hogs,

her hair dipping to the small of her back

as if dipped in black

and polished to a shine.

She wears a side-part

that splits her hair

into two uneven planes.

They come to watch her,

Americans, Marines, just boys,

eighteen or nineteen.

With scissor-fingers,

they snip the air,

repeat cut,

point at their helmets

and then at her hair.

All they want is a small lock.

What does she say

to her mother

to make her so afraid?

Days later

she will be sent away

to the city for safekeeping.

She will return home

only once to be given away

to my father.

Her hair

was dark, washed,

and uncut.

 

-Cathy Linh Che  

Used by permission.

Cathy Linh Che is a Vietnamese American poet from Los Angeles, CA. Her first book of poems, winner the 2012 Kundiman Poetry Prize, is forthcoming from Alice James Books in 2014. She has received fellowships from Poets & Writers, The Fine Arts Work Center at Provincetown, Hedgebrook, and Poets House. She is also co-editing an anthology of poetry and prose from the children of the Vietnam War called Inheriting the War.

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