One day you called, your voice full

of sadness and the weight of a history unknown to me.

In the back of your throat it had found a place to live

like an allergen too familiar with avoidance. Dad’s phở

could cure anything. It stewed of meat and bone.

But it knew nothing of distance and blood.

I learned this too late choking on words

across the country, trying to support you, years later.

It was your decision: You and mom weren’t talking

anymore. I thought of her then, alone, in front of the TV at the end

of the day, always on, weekends too, and Dad,

hiding in the garage, fixing audio devices.

Once the war was over no one knew what to do

so we went to war with one another instead.

This time it felt like the right time to fire

and listen