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Black Box
Ina Cumpiano
She has a MiG 21 under her skin, the nose
like a nub in her armpit. Turboprops
are her lashes; there’s a motor
in her belly and she tells lie after lie
to the cockpit recorder. Soon (pay attention:
this is no metaphor, this is your life), soon
she’ll fly towards Bien Hoa in a rainstorm through
a hole in a cloud, a window just in time. Opportunity.
Down below, a frog
croaked from the paddy —no one,
one one, no one— while Bob Hope told
the one about the nurse
and the Army dentist. In the meantime,
the nurse and the Army dentist
smooched in a corner of her tent. The picture
of his wife in his wallet scorched
a hole on his butt. At this point,
the frog could barely make out
the whispers of the ones who slid in through
shadows, shadows were their
window to climb through. The last one
in line, the small one with the achy dog tooth
whose wife still makes noodles in Cholon,
thought about business. The crick-crack
of twigs underfoot, and the frog
scampers. Soon
boom. The air blossoms, hoa dao at Tet.
A leg here. A hand there.
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