Words My Mother Said Not Lost in Translation

Poetry by Alixen Pham | From Issue 26 (Spring 2024)

—after Michelle Peñaloza

con cái it was not the apple that gave the truth 
mẹ the snake was the stab my mother made 
cha between my legs 
chúa calling it a hole, the value of a woman 
dầu small enough to fit on a man’s thumb, or 
dù as a coin purse made to bear gold or children 
nhà like how our tradition was a God 
mắt sewing a girl’s body as a wedding gown 
mình her cotton panel unstained with vermillion
tiền her song one of fist to mouth, buds pushing
nhà thờ against the wood of tree
người damning the apple to stay green,
nước unplucked,
chó waiting for the fall of its rot

Alixen Pham (she/her)

Alixen Pham is a Best New Poets 2022 finalist and Best of the Net-nominated poet and artist published in The Slowdown, Apogee Journal, Salamander, and others.

Author Website

Author Note:

This poem was born of my inability to speak my first language, Vietnamese. When my family emigrated to American, English became my first language through assimilation. The struggle to “fit in” as a newly minted American and what my mother called “a real Vietnamese person” created friction and a lack of communication with my parents. I grew up struggling to know who I was and how to be that person rather than the person society and my mother wanted from me. Despite the loss in language, I felt some things were not lost as they were born in trauma.