Barefoot
The organizer said, “Okay,
everyone gather at this place
at this time–pretend
it’s a birthday party. Then head over
to the creek when it turns dark;
there will be a small boat
to take you to the Big Boat
waiting by the coast.”
That’s how it worked.
And that’s how I ended up in prison
about 100 kilometers from Saigon.
I remember being barefoot
when I got out. All I was wearing
was a shirt and a pair of shorts.
I was given spare cash–enough
to take a cargo truck to Saigon.
The driver knew.
Because I was barefoot
and jumping on his cargo truck.
He knew I was coming from the prison.
The Difference a Month can Make
august
sunset comes, and with it
the mugginess of summer
nights in Saigon
–and the mosquitoes!
when you can no longer
see the sun, you can no longer
see the hundreds of tiny blood-sucking vampires
gnawing at sweet-scented skin.
nets can only do so much.
the only solace is before sleep
when a splash of water
offers some icy comfort.
september
i stick out my tongue
curling the pink fleshy mass
around an ice crystal
–an ice crystal!
crystallized hope
descended from the sky
like a bird,
like the plane I arrived on;
but no, this
is an honest to god
snowflake.
i hear mutters, complaints:
It’s snowing again.
snow in september? well,
i quite like it, i think
to myself, refreshing
my tongue (and soul) with
another splash of ice.
i could get used to this, i say
curling my tongue
around the name
–Saskatchewan
my new home.
Strangers, again
The second hand on the grandfather clock
rotates, moves, ticks
on. and on. and on;
providing a rhythmic backdrop
for a casual conversation
between my father and I.
We talk…
…and talk
about childhood, growing up,
family, friends,
having pets, not having pets,
school, dreams, letting go of
…dreams.
We talk casually, because my dad
–he’s a casual person, he has a beer
now and then with dinner.
He has never worn a tie to work,
because why?
He wears socks in the house
and sometimes–if he feels like it–
he goes barefoot.
I know this about him.
Casually, my dad mentions
that he served time in prison
–six months.
Casually, he explains
that he was caught while trying
to escape a communist regime.
He was on a boat
and he jumped
overboard, but the patrols
–they had training dogs,
and dogs have a very acute
sense of smell, my dad elaborates,
eyeing the grandfather clock,
avoiding my eyes. Casually.
I stare at the man in front of me,
54 years old. Maybe it’s the light,
but the wrinkles on his face
seem more defined than before;
his movements are tired, they tick
like a grandfather clock.
My dad was in jail.
–I did not know this about him.
And for the first time since I
was born and my dad
picked me up, we are suddenly
strangers,
again.
Maxwell Tran is a 22-year-old writer and storyteller. He often finds inspiration from the experiences of his parents, both Vietnamese refugees, and his own experiences as a first-generation Viet-Canadian. Max’s poetry and prose have previously appeared in the Claremont Review and Toronto Prose Mill. He also attends medical school at the University of Toronto, where he has the privilege of witnessing human stories unfold everyday.
1 comment
Sharply poignant. Gets me in the feels.