Hanoi, 2012

Heated oil

poured over scraped bone;

from the open window comes

the chemical/shit stink of

contaminated soil, humid

and thick and filled with

the buzzing midges of mopeds

and sing-song voices.

Exhaustion with greasy fingers

pulls me back into sleep,

but I resist the tender,

smearing caresses and

rise from the sticky bed,

stepping over broken glass

to stand at the window. She does

not stir. The lace curtains

have yellowed; I stand and look out,

if I smoked this would be the time.

The day is grey, the time is ambiguous:

perhaps we have slept all day and night

and into the next day, or only an hour.

The street below is filled, still, with

vegetable carts and people and dogs and

pedicabs; a teenager stands at the edge

of the sidewalk and pisses into the street

drain; no one seems to care.

Tomorrow, I will turn myself in

to the American embassy. I dig my fingers

through my thick hair, it feels filthy and

caked. My skin is filmed with dirt

and sweat. On the bed she stirs, stretches

like a cat, queefs and sits up to look at me.

"Mấy giờ rồi?"

"Tôi không biết."

She nods and lays back down; in seconds

I hear her light snoring.

The air is making my throat raw, I move

from the window, back to the bed,

not as careful this time, stepping on a

shard of glass and slicing open my toe.

I sit at the edge of the bed, running my

fingertips down her silky black hair,

down the slope of her back to the swell

of her bottom, now the pat-pat-pat

of blood dripping onto the floor

added to the sound of the day,

the evening,

the morning coming through the window.

I watch a gecko dart across the floor,

pause at the tiny puddle of blood,

then move around it, disappearing under

the nightstand.

I cough up and spit oil onto the floor, pick

up my soggy, greyed pillow and hold it

to my chest, stand slowly so as not to wake

her, and step onto the glass with both feet.