by Caleb Schrock-Hurst,
2018-2019 SALT Participant, Hanoi, Vietnam,
2019-2020 MCC Vietnam History Project Coordinator
Perhaps they're in the wind,
our hopes and dreams and fears,
floating to the waiting ears
of those we've never met.
Should, then, I shut my mouth,
or should I shout my tears and joys
upwards to the sun,
where brother wind awaits
to take my tales to parts unknown?
When these words reach you,
you and your two waiting ears
in days I cannot see,
I hope you listen,
and I will listen when the wind
brings your true story
back to me.
The Red River
They load the boats so low here,
So low it seems one wave would send
The metal, coal, and young men dressed in flip flops
To the bottom of the river,
But there is no wave
Just water flat as glass
And red as long-dried blood.
The Tree in Thụy Khuê Street
You said to me the tree is now too old to be cut down,
that your father sat in its shade as a child,
and his father hid beneath its roots
when my people dropped down bombs between its leaves.
You said no road was more important than this tree.