At the museum, I learn I am as tall assome bombs (5’7″). The bombsin question are dumb bombs, which meansthey do not question gravity. They justland where they land, bury whatthey can. Placed in rows, they look somethinglike soldiers. Dumb soldiers. The placard explainshow all bombs used to be dumb, how the termwas coined retroactively by whoever made themsmart, taught them about lasers,thermodynamics, critical theory, all the thingsa contemporary bomb must know tostay competitive in a growing field.War was simpler when my dad lived here.It was called Saigon then & the bombs were so dumbthey didn’t even know it. All they had to dowas their jobs. Christ. This place has no damnA/C. The casualties are colorized. The touristsare foreigner than me, & Lennon serenades uson a loop, asking us every three-and-a-half minutesto imagine no possessions. My phone dings.Take museum with salt, texts Ba. It’s propaganda.Fish sauce, I reply. I send him photos:me standing in front of a nearly forgottenapartment, an elementary school,a wildlife sanctuary. I allow him to imagine mehappy. I tell him on Tuesday I fed mangoesto a ten-year-old elephant. I do not tell himit was recovering from a landmine blast.I do not tell him his friend groped me last nightat the bar, & I definitely do not tell him I ama communist. The world is a list of thingsI keep from my father. Before I leave, I runmy hands over the shell of anothersleeping bomb. But I’m not the only one,sings John. We’re dumb as hell. Full of hurt.