Father Buddha

Father Buddha


I walked two klicks down Le Loi Street
to a school yard, a buddha broken in the dust
shattered by a rocket meant for us,
and saw you sitting in his hand
tossing carved pieces of the statue’s feet,
not even caring where they’d land.
What mattered was that I did not want to be
where and what I was and saw
that you had also had no choice. Some law,
legal in my case, chance in yours,
with no way out that you or I could see,
gave me a twelve-month, you a lifetime, tour.
We shared a cigarette and watched the smoke
rise into the red dust Pleiku air.
You grinned, blew smoke rings with the flair
that comes only when you’re very young.
You told me I was on the Buddha’s throat
and should beware the Buddha’s tongue.
I remember that once, when the war was calm,
we laughed and played with shattered stone,
and know there can be no way to atone
for all the death, the wounds, the pain.
If you still live, rest quietly in Father Buddha’s palm;
if not, sleep peacefully with all the dead.


H. Palmer Hall

Posted over on WLA Journal