The Orange Bench
by Alina Nguyễn
I look at the clothes
turn & turn. We always waited for the loads
to pile, before my father would load the shopping
cart kept in the outdoor parking lot in the back
of the duplex to take the dirtiness of the past
week to clean. He claims that he can wash all
our clothes until he dies: as long as I’m alive, you
don’t have to labor. We’d all go together.
I was always allowed one drink.
I chose Coke, always. The coins go
down the slot, clicking things
into place, revealing the cold can, ready
to be cracked open. I called my parents
today from Lincoln, NE, complaining
that what I’ve always wanted is hard.
Teaching in the Midwest PWI is hard.
My father does what he does
best, tells me about a wise phrase along the lines
of cách con vượt qua điều khó khăn mới
là điều quan trọng. My mother chimes in,
I don’t know anything, & I made it, so can you.
I would like to be back here: 2826 N. Broadway,
Lincoln Heights, CA 90031, sitting on the orange
bench with them, as the washing machines wring
out our clothes.