Pchum Ben Nocturne
Lunar phases mark this past time:
15 days and 15 nights.
The sun’s first beam still hours to come,
yet mourning arrives in waves.
Ornate yourself in white,
say welcome to those before us.
Light the candles, burn the incense,
allow the smoke to surround you.
They have come to say hello, thank you,
you remembered my favorite dish.
Remember to thank the monks for their blessings,
pile them food held high in Styrofoam and rice-steam.
Your mother presents you and only you to the eldest monk,
chum reap sour and bow onto the floor three times.
Bend with body and all, the blue-grey carpet embracing your homage.
On the final bow, you feel the clamorous air hold its applause.
The final bell has rung, the mic set down—
now is when festival turns to feast:
Unwrap limbs and banana leaves, bare its sweet
coconut and sticky rice dimpled from mothers’ hands,
its chewy whispers will make you forget the static
numbing free from previously tucked-in leg.
Another visit has passed. Wonder how
many ancestors made way this 10th month.
This is the season of harvest and reunion,
the nights of bells and chant-prayer and karaoke.
The censer holds nothing but moonlight,
prayers risen songs ago. Now, only laughter holds you.
Trade goodbyes in the late of night,
Saran wrap the offerings for tomorrow’s hunger.
Xin Xăm
Her memory shimmers the nape of your neck,
dangling cold down across collarbones.
You cannot think of her for only the hour,
cannot forget to carry her always.
Each morning becomes a ritual, hands light
above your head. Her voice now as faded as
the jade she left you. It holds close to your
skin the same way she held prayers:
Cupped in red bamboo, awaiting Quan Âm and answers.
That was the only time she gambled.
Finished, you find her fumbling the oranges,
telling the temple volunteer to give her a discount.
He cannot say no to her. Gives her three for $1.
She peels one right there to feed you, and tells you
to take the other two home.
Seven Seven Forty Nine Day
I thought I knew her name until I read the obituary. I sat–
middle pew, white skirt brushing ankles, hands clasped
in lap without prayer. The motorcade
stretched three quarters of a mile long, arriving at dew-pressed
grass. Say goodbye. The rain started
after. Dirt pile turned mud, rose petal sludged remembrance.
My mother said rain after burial is good luck, that
her soul was being accepted into the afterlife. I never doubted
it wouldn’t be. Still, I nodded. The words acted as reminder, not for me.
We said our last goodbyes and headed to the buffet. This was half funeral,
half family reunion.
First seven days, she visited me in sleep. My family became
cannibals and fought over her limbs. I woke up knowing I’d
forgotten to cut a lock of her hair to keep, losing her all over again
in static time-lapse.
Next six seven days filled with blurred prayers and incense smoke
guzzling towards the realm of hungry ghosts. Echoing monk chants vibrating off walls
holding His sleeping statue, palms against palm, we
read each line off oil-stained pages holding bundled tears.
Last seventh day, we know she is gone. We burn the last of her
money & gold & silver & clothes.
Missing People of Khmer Rouge Regime Facebook Group
compared to the 2 million we search for
6.2K members is small
but every man starts somewhere
a name city picture if you’re lucky
all the pictures of Khao-I-Dang scatter in each post
I scan each face, looking for a man that looks like my father
a man links khmerairforce.com
the welcome page ends IT IS UP TO THE SURVIVORS TO COMPLETE THIS HISTORY
I search for a man’s name my uncle
and search until I cannot find it
my father a man who says everything like it is fact tells me
when you get close to dying you will be prayed for and renamed to survive
maybe I am looking for someone who does not exist
I want to send this site to my father but fear his heart break all over again
not from seeing a face familiar to him
but the lack of it
