Lights Out Poem by PhuocTan Diep

‘Lights out, lights off, ’
we flee our beds,
downstairs, down there
helter-skelter, into the shelter
hidden from bombs
dropped by fathers in uniform
with similar smiles to Santa Claus.

Spotlights touch those planes above,
fingers too thin to catch the bullets
and bombs that fall like sand
and stones that clatter on children’s heads,
bent over, pushed down by shaking hands
of mothers crying with hopes they wish could shield their children’s bodies
when the blast sends waves of sound
so loud it deafens the ground,
which quakes and groans and moans,
and breaks the house,
bursting it open, spilling its guts
all down the street.

There’s the broken leg
from granddad’s table.

There’s the kettle
bursting and boiling too quick to whistle.

There’s mom’s laundry
never again in need of ironing
having found its final form
as singed confetti thrown
towards those planes
which fly so close, almost engaged,
but free to break for home,

which may not exist,
when they get back
if our fathers’ presents are handed out
to foreign children, just like me.

My ears! My ears!
They bleed and ring with deafness
lodged too deep to think.

Its been so long the blood has dried
and died, so long the skin
has fallen off and blown away,
pieces of dust unmissed, unseen
blown over sea to find a field
where people plant and pray for life
to burst from seeds, then march back home
to bare houses where light
is scarce and mothers screech,
‘Lights out, lights off,
no need for light when you’re asleep.’

Late at night I hear mom ask,
‘To kill, to die, are we better off? ’
but she should know better,
the ground’s too deep
for dad to hear her cry.