Poetry || Submissions

Untangle Those Things
and other poems
by Richard Epstein

Untangle Those Things

There is only so much room inside. One at a time
I give them freedom; a chance to escape,
a path to a less crowded space.

The View from Nong Khi

Across the river, a thousand peaks remain,
like sharks they wait to devour the sky.
>From this spot, I once watched families drown
as they tried to reach the land of Siam,
and now a bridge is built with tenuous arms
to cross the mighty Mekong.

The buffalo and teak are gone, replaced
with the noise of progress and trade.
In Mai Sai trucks wait along the river edge
to unload their haul of lechee, lumyi,
and tamarind. Barefoot Burmese wait
silently to transfer the load from truck to ship.

The weight of each sack when placed on one’s back
is met with a brief smile or grimace of pain.
As the laborers approach the waiting ship,
each man bends low to grab a counting stick,
which they drop into a pail as they releases their load.

A girl with long hair appears at the stern,
her body wrapped in a black sarong.
She scoops water from a large wooden barrel
to splash on her shoulders and chest. With a smile,

she soaps herself down then dives into the lazy Mekong.
A rust-colored dog and nude little boy squat side-by-side
in the warmth and glow of a charcoal fire as an old woman
prepares the morning meal.

Soon the boat will make its way to the Yangtze.
From this spot I once watched families drown
as they tried to reach this land of the free,
and now a bridge is built in the name of
friendship and trade, under the wary eyes
of armed border guards.

Across the river, a thousand peaks remain.
Like sharks they wait to devour the sky.

As I tug on a slithery end it turns quickly to a random flash,
an image stored too long in a damp, dark cave; the flesh
of a soldier torn inside out, innocent lives

too young snuffed out. Don’t focus too long. Let it pass,
but inside out it comes again and again.
Like life, let it pass.

The Wrong Part of Town

The sun wiped dry the heavy dew
and consumed the morning fog.
The sky loomed a miraculous blue.

An ox cart wheel leaned hard
against a makeshift fence
held tight in thick, red clay.

Two small loops of weathered hemp
hung from opposite spokes.
It was there, the soldier said,
they found her tied and gutted wide.

Her bowels littered the ground.
A sign was hung from around her neck.
VC is what it said.

(Mukdahan, Thailand - 1965)

Yahrtzeit*

" Yisgadal veyiskadash shemey rabah"

At first slow and weak
the words grow strong.
The sounds are carried
by finch and by sparrow.

Magnified and sanctified be his great name, Amen.

The Rabbi announces the word
and waits: Yahrtzeit!
Heads turn, a whisper
weaves through the congregation.
Mourners rise like weeds.

A postcard reminds us to light
the Yahrtzeit candle. It waits
in the kitchen for sundown.

Its sputtering flame
struggles; a wavering
yet obstinate giving
and taking of light.

Twenty-four hours
is too short
a time to remember.

The candle sits
on the kitchen counter
where you once worked
your crossword puzzles
and read while waiting
for simmering oatmeal.

Where are you now Father?
Are you the smoke?
Are you the flame?
Your books are still here!
Your kitchen is clean!

Twenty-four hours
is too short
a time to remember.

In your backyard, a scallion
grows tall along side an obelisk-shaped stone
placed into the earth in your name.
I encircled it with forget-me-nots.
As I sit on your porch pondering
about compost pile and vegetables garden,
I see you glance at the unruly scallion,
shrug your shoulders,
then fade from my view.

--- Yahrtzeit: a memorial prayer read on the anniversary of a loved one’s death. Yahrtzeit candle: a memorial candle that burns for 24 hours.

Richard Epstein works as a technical writer in the Washington DC area. He is married, has two children, and a snake. He's an avid motorcyclist and he co-hosts a poetry venue for Vietnam Veterans every Memorial Day and Veterans Day in the nation's capitol.