poetry by ha kiet chau

Exodus 1979: The Lucky Ones

43 nights. Nothing ravishing 
about midnight constellations or quarter moons.

I am among the 96 refugees, pregnant and sick
on a wooden boat voyaging from Vietnam to China 

to Hong Kong, risking our lives,
fleeing the aftermath of a war-torn country.

 Crammed in. The intimacy of strangers. Her slender arm 
brushes my shoulder. His cigarette breath against my neck.

 The distress of typhoons, the endurance of dehydration 
and hunger. Children bawling, couples bickering.

 No showers. No baths. Lice outbreak.
The stench of sweat, vomit, urine.

 The constant fear of pirates, of looting, of rape,
of drowning, of starvation, of disease, of death.

 Anxious ladies in bamboo hats burn joss paper,
chuck rice and tea overboard, recite hymns.

 The boat surges again.
I long to reach the port, long to see the city lights.

Boa kisses my forehead, assures we will arrive soon.
Another week drags by. Another four days.

 I wait and sleep and weep and dream of giving birth
in Kowloon,

dream of kids chasing kites and jets and birds,
their faces lucent as stars.

Stirring awake, the Hong Kong coastline shifts into view:
the port and the gazillion city lights.

In history books, one day, they will call us the lucky ones.
96 refugees survived to tell their story, their trauma.

 I rub my belly, whisper to my unborn baby,
we made it, we made it.