i know the taste of cranberry juice

better than my own childhood.

your face is scarred from battle

eyes bluer than the oceans you cross

knuckles bloody with the men you've killed

men with my same skin,

my mother's ancient kin.

i want to trust you, army man, holy man,

big man with the roman nose.

you sneeze loudly, like all white men

like my father did, the days he was home

and it sounded so wonderful

like boisterous celebration

i wish my father had been home more.

but he manufactured bullets in lyon;

you will shoot them in saigon.

i imagine you touching the same barrel,

cocking it back, aiming for the heart—

the same hands we use for love we use

for war.

i wish my father had been home more.

i wish my mother had a home at all.

but you, army man, you and your generals

have burned it to the ground

and now i am tortured, too,

since i adore the white man's touch

and i have to pretend

every night at the dinner table

as i serve you

home-cooked canard d'orange

(my mother's recipe)

that our love

isn't some sick joke,

that the ghosts of my ancestors

aren't screaming in their napalm graves

begging, begging me

to wield the carving knife

already in my hand