GOLDEN TORTOISE, THE

War Relics Market

43 Edward Tick From its ashes my phoenix does not rise R In a typical afternoon downpour that squeezes humidity out of the torpid air, I walk with both veterans and civilians through crowded streets to a poor section of Ho Chi Minh City. Tiny storefronts crammed with goods by day become one-room houses by night. Goods are stacked against the walls as extended family members jam together on their sleeping mats. Amidst stalls of tools, foodstuffs, clothing, we find the scattering of vendors selling war surplus items or their cheap imitations left over from French, American, Chinese, Northern and Southern armies. Infamous Zippo lighters are everywhere—“real $20, fake $2.” War Relics Market Prowling the stalls— helmets, ditty bags, uniforms— no weapons Northern pilot’s cap flaps dangling over my ears— old men’s laughter Old beret awaiting my winter Stacks of black and white torn from wallets and albums— my trembling fingers Above the VC scarf soft smile, black eyes— killer hero girl friend 44 The Golden Tortoise A dozen dog tags— real or fake? ghost of a squad This stranger’s name riding home in my wallet this brother’s name R Eight Americans, men and women, vets and civilians, pick our ways through heat and traffic. We arrive at the busy intersection where in 1963 Buddhist monk Thich Quang Duc immolated himself to protest the Southern regime’s religious oppression and war frenzy. I bow before the humble memorial altar built on a street corner and protected from the stampede by a flimsy fence. I contemplate his act and our compulsion to honor it. Prayer When I burn let me sit R ...