3 poems by Jacqueline Nha Pham
Flor de Muerto
The last time we saw Feliciana,
she was on the cover of Suicide Girls,
fully nude,
a tattooed silhouette with a hand-scripted neck piece
that reads:
“Ich Bin,
Je Suis,
I am.”
She was my favorite sobrina.
The altar is full of Aztec marigolds,
from sugared skulls to candied pumpkin,
and tiny multi-colored trinkets
are scattered above
and below the black and white
pictures of Feliciana: ages 3 to 26.
I stand here with her sister, Adora,
watching the male relatives down shots of tequila,
and their wives sharing whispered
anecdotes of Feliciana as a wayward child.
A little boy runs around in his diapers,
face full of bread crumbs, a humorous tone
blankets the room. Even in her absence,
the thought of her brightens the room.
The last time I saw Feliciana,
she asked me if I am happy.
"Meeting Suicide GIrls Lyon" (photo by Flickr user Trypode)
Haunted Underneath the Song
She wrote “death”
with a permanent marker
on my napkin
and left the table.
Whoa, what happened?
Do you want the long version
or the short one?
The long one.
I tried to save my life but I failed.
What’s the short one?
It’s burnt.
The first time
she held my hands,
we were in the middle
of aisle seven, looking
for the right sized bandages.
But it was too late,
the blood
dried too quickly.
It has only been four days,
but I can’t recall the sound
of her voice or the last time
we laughed together.
Her purple afghan lays
in the corner, cold
and neatly folded.
"XIII Death" (photo by Flickr user Natracha)
What can you do when you’re no longer the hero of your own story?
Dew-kissed empty streets
pave lonely avenues in my mind.
The misty benches
on these streets
are my lullaby.
The streets are filled with a strong scent of burning leaves,
clouding my sight: escorting childhood memories
of lighting jasmine wood-incense
at the temple with my Nana to my cerebrum.
After praying, I remember
wandering alone in the temple’s garden,
chasing the silky music of waterfall
beneath Buddha’s feet. It sounded as sweet as my first kiss
on the snow in Little Rock, Arkansas,
stolen by Monique Jimenez. Back in 1999,
all I ever wanted was to steal her heart first.
But back in 1999, all I ever wanted
was everything.
They told me that the Lotus flower
grow in muddy waters
but I’ve poured gallons of water
on the schoolyard playground
and I’ve never seen a hint of Lotus.
My friends laughed at me for crying
over whatchumacallit because they were kids
and they were white (and my mother told me
that white kids don’t know about lotus flowers).
“Ain’t nuthin’ ya can do
when ya find out
you ain’t no longa
zee hero
in ya own story, man.”
The deflated balloons of my hopes and dreams
caressed the asphalt,
and were run over by truck drivers.
I was as excited as Eeyore to grow up
and embrace the world. After turning 23,
I finally left the nest and moved
to the octopus’s garden
underneath the stormy waves.
Jaxberry lost her sanity
and one day, she will join Virginia Woolf
on the backside of water, cultivating oyster shells.
“Cá không ăn muối cá ươn,
con cãi cha mẹ trăm đường con hư.”
Now, just empty streets rocking me to sleep,
just blankets of fog holding my hand, leading me home.
–
Jacqueline Nha Pham recently graduated from California State University, Long Beach in Fall 2010 with two Bachelors’ degrees in Creative Writing and Literature with a minor in Psychology. She is currently a mentor for LGBTQIA youth utilizing art therapy and a SAT Prep tutor in Orange County. In Fall 2011, she started her first year in the MFA Creative Writing program at CSULB.
