CARRIE CHAPPELL

Vietnamese New Year

Here in the satellites, we come our feet touching
the latch, forgetting the one-hour time difference, the infestation
of boll weevils in this growing region. So, we pause in the moments of non-
abuse to comment on parrots, how they never die.

You say thereís always a moment where the teacher becomes the amputee,
a singing imitation of trauma. The prosthetic toe, a little beast,
invented for the star that lost its heart in Hanoi just after
the agreement. This waking parachute dropping along the lip

of the courtyard wall lifts five men at once. Swelling in the silk
cloth, ashes. I donít blame you for cremation, but shouldnít we save
something for the end? That was the plan, this was the reason
for the quiet attack. Iím sorry you donít understand: this is the deformity.

In the beginning, we ferry across the moon to discover where we all
must return. Remember you are the teacher, remember the sleep,
remember the student said graves of our ancestors, lucky orbit, escape.

Here, many eyes make the slender gun swallow birds.






Carrie Chappell is a poet, living in Bywater. She was raised in Birmingham, Alabama by an English teacher and a microbiologist. (chapp010@gmail.com)



Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761