works by w.pham

works by william pham, 2005-present
Vietnamese
Vietnamese for me was the language of reprimands,
harsh and unrelenting tones echoing through hallways
with marble-tile floors and bronze sculptures
on pedestals, jade statues in display cases, vases
without flowers.

Vietnamese for me was the language of shouts
and the plastic sound of painted nails drawing lines
on painted faces; my sister fled in a BMW
instead of a boat, my brother in an SUV.

They left that language behind;
we all left that language behind.

Vietnamese for my mother was the language
of her grandmother's cries while she stood
at the gate of her ancestral home, watching ghosts
and heavy walls burning to the ground.

Vietnamese for my father was the language
of helicopter blades whipping through the air
as he watched his nation slowly fade from his
field of vision.

Vietnamese now is the language of
mahjongg tiles clicking together,
fingers tapping green velvet tables,
cooking oil splashing and crackling.

But this language cannot bury the language
of footfalls and shouts and hurried flights
from haunted places.

We speak Vietnamese not with our tongues
but with every breath that escapes our lungs.