Contributors / December 2016 (Issue 34)


Apples

by Thanh Phùng

My first night in Leuven, your messy dirty room
was scented with the flavour of the apples you had brought home from the farm where you worked.
I couldn’t see them. They were scattered somewhere in the dark corners of the room.
'Sometimes the apples smell so bad, and I have to search the whole room to look for them,' you said.
I didn’t know that would be haunting,

as I didn't know Camilo with chestnut trees in Brusselstraat would be the place to live my last
days in Leuven, 2007.
I left there a year of little happiness, just like the previous years.

Where I am living now is filled with autumn—
Shiningly red apples on the tables.

Picking apples from the trees, I have never done
Sorting out apples into categories, I have never done—
The scent of the apples in the dark corners that year hurts my eyes.


/// Original ///
 
 
 Thanh Phùng is enamored with Jacques Rancière. As a lover of equality, she is conducting educational experiments on creativity, contemporary art, literature, and feminism. 
 
Website © Cha: An Asian Literary Journal 2007-2017
ISSN 1999-5032
All poems, stories and other contributions copyright to their respective authors unless otherwise noted.