Vietnam, the gold-embroidered serpent,
slides gently through those waters,
slithers silently into sun-shot shores,
coils, hisses, and sleeps.
We stumble over her with our surfboards,
we see her as she's not,
as we forgot when we remembered the jungle,
when she sprang up from rice patties with kamikaze fury
to devour us and then bite her tail.
The confused venom of a crimson god burns.
She is wounded. She sheds her skin
on too many beaches. I cringe.
Forgiveness. Pity. Salvation and Western gods.
This is not Nhà Trang. She is looking for Nhà Trang,
where she can curl up and wait
until her eggs hatch, and she can rest in peace.