To the Child for Whom my Father Cries
This is for you, the child whose name
I do not know, the black-haired boy
who came running unwelcome
into my father’s life
and clings to him even now, forty years
after meeting him on the tree-lined trail
that paralleled the stream
running to Plei Ku Dut.
What would have happened
if you hadn’t found that can
of C-rations lying on the ground,
hadn’t picked it up
and begun to run down the trail
holding it in front of you like a trophy?
A can of ham and lima beans,
my father says, you were carrying
a can of ham and lima beans,
and you were smiling
as you ran down the trail
toward him that morning,
unaware of what flashed
through his mind in the split
second that passed
when you stepped out
of the shade and he saw you
come running toward him
with that can in your hands.
He shouted at you to stop,
he begged you to stop.
But you ran, and you still
keep running toward him,
and he still keeps shouting
for you to stop.
He begs you to stop.
Listen to him, please
stop.
