A Poem by Bob Boldt
Hong Hanh stops to rest
on the road to Ho Chi Minh City.
Through the heavy afternoon air,
she carries her son—
a legless, armless trunk of a boy—
in an improvised backpack.
The war is nearly forgotten now.
What is its memory
next to tired feet,
the weight of her beloved burden?
Robed monks pass in silence.
Into a bowl she drops
one of her last two coins.
The gods are now as remote from her
as the men who mixed the poisons—
who killed the crops, made the animals sick,
birthed all the misshapen children.
Slowly she rises to complaining joints.
If she makes her cousin’s before nightfall,
there will be rice and a warm place to sleep.
–from the comment section found here: https://moristotle.blogspot.com/2020/12/all-over-place-executive-of-pesticides.html