Strawberry Confessional

Haolun Xu

Today I bought a crepe filled with sweet cream and strawberries.
The vendor was astute to add that they were freshly picked. 

The credit card, like a magician’s rabbit, is invisible in my pocket until I need it.
I am my father’s money. Sometimes everything I eat is a ghost. 

No, it was not always like this. During college, I found money with my body.
They called me a spouse’s friend, but never a spouse. But it was students, 

who went to expensive colleges in the mountains, that paid money quickest.
As if they too, were seeking to get rid of something. 

Oh, strength— how we win against time by calling upon others.
Yesterday is a pattern, broken by someone other than myself. 

But this is the future, boldly claiming my safety. Somewhere, I lose
a precious memory from the little apartment where I was born. 

Meanwhile, a small family is arguing near the tables where I am eating.
The mother has a hand up, and when she is speaking, her husband responds 

by looking at the ground, saying he understands. 
Their child, no older than four, faces the sky just like me. 

All I can offer is my eyes, staring brightly towards them. 
As the family leaves in their little unit,

I bow slightly as I move away,
like an unlucky cat careful with his curse.

4. Water Story 

Last week, I went with the others 

to my boss’s summer home. In the bright 

pool, I swam with my contacts in. Twice, I forgot

the right way to butterfly, and almost vomited

in front of everyone. Once, I saw another 

cover her mouth from laughing. 

Later I realized I forgot to take off my fifteen-dollar 

watch before swimming. For the next week, 

the movement of time allowed the droplets to form

a second ring. One coworker says I should buy a nicer one 

but I’m spending too much money. On the news today

five rich people died in a submarine right next to

the Titanic and the internet is filled with jokes.

I swing my feet alone in my bedroom, the window

closed. Despite the warnings, I keep smoking cigarettes,

and my watch is still filled with water. I haven’t gotten

the MRI yet on that mass they found in the front of my brain.

People tell me the submarine was piloted like a video game

and I tell myself I’d never be in such a thing. 

I laugh and laugh as the moon falls down 

from up above me and where I cannot see.

About the writer

Haolun Xu is a Chinese-American fiction writer and poet born in Nanning, China. He was raised in New Jersey. His creative writing has appeared in Gulf Coast, Narrative, Joyland, and more. Haolun is currently attending the M.F.A. Creative Writing Program at the Michener Center for Writers at UT Austin, in Texas.