or cantonese her mother tongue
the language she heard from her parents' cries
the language of bullets tearing rough skin and infectious
bare feet on wet mud
with words that exploded
at her ears reflected from her mother's broken glasses
and her father's quiet veins,
but she wants to learn your english
the language of money and soft comfortable beds
she knows the hello and the goodbye
and the digits followed by the vietnam dong
the progressive euros and dollars
that will get her to bring me to the homes
of those who enunciate your english
at her ears with an unnaturally slowed loud voice and wild
hand gestures
as she admires the complexion of your skin and your eyes
the color she wants to see in her grandchildren one day;
perhaps it's only fair that she doesn't let me hear her voice
for she couldn't understand mine
my vietnamese and my english
from the phrase "I like girls"
that I dare not whisper even in the dark
to the phrase "I love you"
I share on my girlfriend's lips only when my mother is
surrounded
by the darkness of her eyelids
and the sound of heavy rain in the ocean that distances between her whisper
and my voice.