You search for half the day before
you find a shivering man,
still tethered to the parachute,
a leg sopping red,
covered in panic and sweat.
You want him to know you are
the same side,
you, Hmong soldier, he,
American ally,
but you cannot mouth
friend in his language.
Still, you bandage his leg, shield him
under banana leaves.
You cannot see the sniper
who corrects himself
in the reeds,
waiting for the perfect wind,
coaxing his scope
to find you.
Now, the bullet’s heft in your head.
You polar hands.
Here, among the gullies and caverns,
you lie in a forest of orchids,
fix your gaze to the wild fern.