The old general wants me to sleep.

He pats the bed and points to my shoes.

His voice tells me this is a man

accustomed to being obeyed.

After the ride to Tay Ninh

in a sheetmetal box with two flat tires,

the red laterite dust in our lugs

so thick you could hear it bubble,

after the commissar’s welcoming speech:

so many wounded, so many homeless,

so many dead—even the general

falling asleep in his chair,

I wanted to walk to the river

to sit in the shade and wash my lungs

with the cool breath of a graceful land

of buffalo boys and herons,

but the guard at the gate spoke

only Vietnamese, and I did not.

Only a boy, he held his weapon

at port arms and tried to smile.

Years ago in another life,

I had killed young men like him

and they had tried to kill me.

But not today. I’m tired of fighting.

So I turned away and found

the general under a fan in tropical heat.

I want to explain what’s happened,

but the general wants me to sleep.

I’ve never slept with a general before.

Men don’t sleep with their officers

and don’t take naps together in bed

in the afternoon in my country.

But this is not my country.

The general pats my arm and dozes off,

serene as any aging man content

to have his grandchild sleeping near.