Cactus Dawn
Baby, I’m inside-out, growing chickpea
eyes on the bottom of my feet.
Found your suitcase by the highway:
three black socks, those Miller Lite
bottle caps you hoarded and the old ladle
that hung like a cross over our bed. You said
your Ma gave it to you before you died,
but we both know you’re still alive—
said the sun rises indigo at night
and the desert wouldn’t go dry
if you had a hydrant that sprays bullfrogs—
said your Pa only spoke
in colonized tongues. He never made
real words for you.
Friday I woke
from a dream I can’t remember
and you were gone, chasing Diego
the Rooster into another dawn, shadows
peeled off your shoes, slick and black—
some sort of crow code I can’t crack.
Found your suitcase by the highway:
three black socks, those Miller Lite
bottle caps you hoarded and the old ladle
that hung like a cross over my head—
Samantha Lê was born in Sa Đéc, Vietnam, and immigrated to San Francisco when she was nine. A recipient of the James D. Phelan Literary Award and the Donor Circle for the Arts Grant, Lê holds an MFA from San José State University. Her publications include Corridors (Chusma House, 2001) and Little Sister Left Behind (Chusma House, 2007).