The Mahogany Tree
by Paul Curlee

Moving east of Bien Hoa there is a road consumed
By village shacks where people live and cemeteries where people rest,
Until moving on and then in mudded ruts, on hill
And ridge through rubber stands and banana fronds,
A clearing makes work place for men,
Who, a large mahogany tree have slain beside the road.

A tree may measure time, this giant Grandfather, largest ever seen
Must tell all things past and horizontal now till
Marks the future day and night as limbs are consumed
And outer layers peeled away each time this place
Is passed, counting weeks and months on a journey
Toward the unraveling of all that hides the heart.

Cradeling such trees a verdant land gives source
To myriad growth of vines and bush and grass
Impregnably dense to lessen, even prevent
Present being entry into it, where left by self
Growing things continue; even with the war
Thrown out bath water grows corn and carrots.

Sometimes through mud and others dry dust
The people pass this giant on flap-flop sandals
Or bare of feet and back or in flowery silk-flowing
Behind a motor scooter or cycle carrying loads
No two wheels or feet were meant to bear;
Such seem strong, resilient, these people of Xuan Loc.

Seven months now gone and marked in mahogany
Planks stripped away like tracks off a tank blown up
Here on the road and metal peeled off the people’s
Bus by shaped-charge laid in the mud at night
By man opposed to man; and rally out Blackhorse Cavalry
Too late, but rickety, oil-leaked truck mahogany trails away.

Old woman now foraging amidst the sawdust chips
With bandy-legged boy (father gone in war) for firewood
Remnants, I stop our column to survey one last time
The bed of mahogany where once stood life and dignity,
Pieces of all-men remain for a time to dust become.
Grow strong young boy, Grandmother warm yourself with Grandfather, we go