Autumn Harvest

​
He’s standing in the kitchen 
autumn harvest party
a Vietnam vet who piloted a gunship
and killed many men
we hover over the tray of cheese 
we aren’t eating
he says he’s turned against war
talks for a while
of how the lumbering helicopters
were hard to get off the ground

the party swirls around us
as he finally speaks of the one lodged in his heart
he thinks she was called a candy striper
deliverer of care packages to dangerous places

she asked him for a ride out of the combat zone
back to the safety of the base
it was against the rules
but he agreed

when bullets started popping 
in surprise attack
he told her what to do
and she did it
never screamed
never cried
kept her cool
the bravest person he ever knew

I picture him holding her aloft 
on the flat palm of his hand
she sits jauntily with legs crossed
holding a brown-wrapped package

the thin red stripes of her dress
like the delicate capillaries reaching
all the way to her fingertips
cascade in billows of starched cotton
down around his arm
crisply brush November’s tears

a candy striper
he thinks she was called



Editor's Note:  In an email to me, Sylvia explained the origin of the following poem:  "[This is a poem] I wrote last winter about an experience with breakdancers on a late night bus ride home.  The Hmong immigrant men are almost all veterans who fought on the American side in the Vietnam war and suffered loss and dislocation as a result.  I think breakdancing has helped, in a way, to heal the wounds for the next generation."
​
Breakdancers Take the Night Bus Home


An American advisor
for an Asian breakdancing crew
I inhabit the front of the bus
cruising through a winter storm

the driver rests wide and easy in his seat
casts out a few tales
casually over his shoulder

bus ride home suddenly explodes
in a cacophony of white
firecracker photos snapped
on smartphones
uproarious defenses mounted
over flickers of images

arms over shoulders sling  
boys together
they sing the old songs
the words of their fathers
who once were young soldiers
now laid out on sofas

these kids laugh at each other 
for knowing the words
singing a language that is already tonal

snow drives hard against the glass
night drives dark down the aisle  
b-boys arc themselves forward 
bring back a forested mountain home