Free Inside Out and Back Again by Thanhha Lai

A Day Downtown
    Every spring
    President Thiu
    holds a long long long
    ceremony to comfort
    war wives.
    Mother and I go because
    after President Thiu’s
    talk talk talk—
    of winning the war,
    of democracy,
    of our fathers’ bravery—
    each family gets
    five kilos of sugar,
    ten kilos of rice,
    and a small jug of
    vegetable oil.
    Inside the cyclo
    Mother crosses her legs
    so I can fit beside her.
    The breeze still cool,
    we bounce across the bridge
    shaped like a crescent moon
    where I’m not to go by myself.
    Mother smells of lavender
    and warmth;
    she’s so beautiful
    even if
    her cheeks are too hollow,
    her mouth too dark with worries.
    Despite warnings,
    I still want her sunken eyes.
    Before I see it,
    I hear downtown,
    thick with beeps,
    shouts, police whistles.
    Everywhere,
    mopeds and bicycles
    race down the wide road,
    moving out of the way
    only when a truck
    honks and mows straight down
    the middle of the lane.
    We get out
    in front of an open market.
    We push our way to
    a bánh cu n stand.
    I love watching
    the spread of rice flour on cloth,
    stretched over a steaming pot.
    Like magic a crepe forms
    to be filled with shrimp
    and eaten with
    cucumber and bean sprouts.
    It tastes even better
    than it looks.
    While my mouth is full,
    the noises of the market
    silence themselves,
    letting me and my bánh cu n
    float.
    We squeeze ourselves
    out of the market,
    toward the presidential palace.
    We stand in line;
    for even longer
    we sit on hot metal benches
    facing the podium.
    My white cotton
    hat and Mother’s flowery umbrella
    are nothing
    against the afternoon sun,
    shooting rays into
    my short short hair.
    I’m dizzy
    and thirsty;
    the fish sauce
    in the bánh cu n
    was very salty.
    Mother gives me a tamarind candy.
    I have never been
    so thrilled
    to drink my saliva.
    Finally President Thiu appears,
    tan and sweaty.
    We know you have suffered.
    I thank you,
    your country thanks you .
    Then he cries actual tears,
    unwiped, facing the cameras.
    Mother clicks her tongue:
    Tears of an ugly fish.
    I know that to mean
    fake tears of a crocodile.
    April 12

Twisting Twisting
    Mother measures
    rice grains
    left in the bin.
    Not enough to last
    till payday
    at the end of the month.
    Her brows
    twist like laundry
    being wrung dry.
    Yam and manioc
    taste lovely
    blended with rice,
    she says, and smiles,
    as if I don’t know
    how the poor
    fill their children’s bellies.
    April 13

Closed Too Soon
    A siren screams
    over Miss Xinh’s voice
    in the middle of a lesson
    on smiley and bald
    President Ford.
    We all know it’s bad news.
    School’s now closed;
    everyone must go home
    a month too soon.
    I’m mad and pinch the girl
    who shares my desk.
    Tram is half my size,
    so skinny and nervous.
    Our mothers are friends.
    She will tell on me.
    She always tells on me.
    Mother will again
    scold me to be gentle.
    I need time
    to finish this riddle:
    A man usually rides his bike
    9 kilometers per hour,
    yet the wind slows him
    to 6.76 kilometers
    for 26 minutes
    and 5.55 kilometers
    for 10;
    how long until he gets home
    11.54 kilometers away?
    The first to solve it
    gets the sweet potato plant
    sprouting at the window.
    I want to plant it
    beside my papaya tree,
    where vines can climb
    and shade ripening fruit.
    Again I pinch Tram,
    knowing the plant
    will be awarded
    today
    to the teacher’s pet,
    who is always
    skinny and nervous
    and never me.
    April 14

Promises
    Five papayas
    the sizes of
    my head,
    a knee,
    two elbows,
    and a thumb
    cling to the trunk.
    Still green
    but promising.
    April 15

Bridge to the Sea
    Uncle Sn,
    Father’s best friend,
    visits us.
    He’s short, dark, and smiley,
    not tall, thin, and serious
    like Father in photographs.
    Still, when classmates
    ask about my father,
    sometimes short and smiley
    come to mind
    before I can stop it.
    Uncle Sn goes straight
    to the kitchen,
    where the back door opens into
    an alley.
    Unbelievable luck!
    This door bypasses the navy checkpoint
    and leads straight to