I just tripped on bamboo in Trung’s backyard.
It snapped, not too loud, but loud enough
for him to catch me. We’re eleven, playing “VC”
with his four brothers. VC is like Tag,
but if you’re “it,” you have to pretend
to be the Viet Cong. It’s my turn
to be the Viet Cong, but first Trung wants
to tell me something broken and jungledark.
His brothers’ laughter betrays their hiding places.
I don’t have the heart to find them.
Trung tells me about his sister wailing,
looking back home, looking ready to turn into salt;
about their father’s slap on her cheek
followed by a caress on the red spot.
The seasick boat rocks and awaits them.
The latenight air is chilly.
Half of Trung’s brothers have peed themselves.
I’m the Viet Cong, and I can almost smell it.
Ten years later, Trung and I smoke some strong
stinky weed together on break from our different
colleges, and I lose him in the haze. I look
on Facebook and in the phone book.
I’ll never find him.
–Tom C. Hunley,
Scotch Tape World
Accents Publishing
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