Natasa Tocuc (Saigon)

The day we buried Daddy hangs in my mind
like a yellow cotton winter dress
on the clothesline out back.
What I remember?
How his two brothers,
the two who outlived him,
argued with me over everything:
The plain wood coffin,
his body,
the clothes I chose to lay him out in,
the ribbon of blue silk
wrapped loosely about his folded hands
which held no meaning for them,
the Mexican chain hanging from his neck,
the mass of grey hairs I would not let the mortician dye or straighten,
the nail shaped and never painted that
made his nail cleaned and at the wake,
the shameless way I touched him:
holding,
feeling.
His hands and face
kissing his eyes
as thought he was my daddy or alive.