My father is the boy shaking the sky
reflected in a dark puddle. He has torn
cloth off a rag
to bandage his big left toe
which earlier today he lost a disc of
while playing
with a knife by a rock.
Numbness and a field gone quiet
had preambled the rocket of pain
that detonated his leg and stockpile
of curses and blood, later cleaned then plugged
by a paste of cane sugar, ground with leaves.
Collecting river water for tea, some time
not far from today, he will dip with a pan,
then straighten his back to thunder
knocking the water out of his hand.
Flying Tigers, he’ll think,
mistaking Japanese planes for American,
and he will know his mistake
as branches, stones, and bricks
from the building he just stepped out of, fall.
He will know as legs, hands, and torsos
belonging to the Kuomintang, waiting
for morning tea, rain over him.
But for now, let him be a boy.
Let the sky be silent, the ground clean.
Let the puddles make small waves for sport
while boots are sewn, distantly shined,
while 12-year-olds pretend to be soldiers
and marching has not yet churned the ocean.
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