In Sài Gòn, I wore
my áo dài sidesaddle
on my husband’s xe Honda,
the atmosphere a slurry
of exhaust
and humidity.
My hair dragged
like a black curtain
through traffic.
Engines riled,
multiplying.
Already, it’s early.
Here, Coppola
dresses down,
shirtless, sometimes,
less fancy director,
more man of the people
gone jungle wild.
Gray waves zipper
along the shore.
Coppola says, I want it to smell
like the real thing.
I want to tell him,
The real thing
is a landscape
of work and death,
the names of our ancestors
slack in our mouths,
just the art of loving
your family line enough
to reproduce it.
Cathy Linh Che
