Hieu Minh Nguyen is a Saint Paul, Minnesota native. He was a member of Minneapolis' SlamMN! 2011 National Poetry Slam Team. He recently retired from the pizza industry where he specialized in delivery and asking you if you wanted to hear "Today's Specials!". Hieu is also 58% sure that he has been to every Great Lake.

Four Poems (September 20, 2011. Issue 31.)

From The Closet

In my most memorable
nightmare, I am washing her hair,
Gin dripping from the faucet. I run
my lips over her curls.
Her breath rippling
my skin. I touch her
how a real lover would.

When I woke up, her head
was next to my shoulder.
I can feel a stray hair
between my fingers. Her skin
reveling on my tongue.
I tried so hard to convince myself,
it was just a dream.

Inheritance

The night my father left,
I wet the bed. It was the first time
since being trained not to.
I was four, and everyone I loved
was drowning.

Using one of my father's neck ties,
I sponged the urine from the mattress.
I peeled the sheets off like a birthmark
and shoved them into his luggage.
He backed out of our driveway,
and into hers.

I wonder how long her bed has been dry.
How long has she been waiting
for another body to seep into? How much rust
is underneath my father's nails?

When he unpacks,
I hope the smell will
welcome him home.

Pomp & Circumstance

Spring

The children are out playing again. They are moving
so fast. Playing the games we used to. Four Square,
Hopscotch, and my worst enemy
Red Light, Green Light. I was never good
at stopping.

Your yearbook picture bookmarks
the intersection. Every time I drive to work
I take the long way. I take the road
with less memories. The road that doesn't
have your face plastered on the curb.

I will always remember the red light spilling
onto the street. Your smile scattered
all over the intersection. Your body outline
waving, greeting the oncoming traffic.
It's all straight lines and sharp edges. Like hopscotch
a skip,
a jump,
a crash.
Some say it was an accident. Some say you were
pushed. I don't know the truth. I just know I'm afraid
of driving. Afraid of the fusion of flesh and pavement.

Summer

It's been the hottest one yet. Your roadside memorial
is still beautiful, You'd be happy to hear that people
still visit it. Some still cry. I keep driving. Hoping
to not discover anything on the other end of my bumper.

The spotlight of high beams. Every time
I drive by your memorial. I can hear
"Pomp and Circumstance" on the radio.
I see diplomas cover my windshield.

Were you thinking of graduation? About prom?
About what you were going to wear
the next day? Did you imagine
an asphalt turtle neck?

Autumn

is an art exhibit. Jackson Pollock streets,
a collage of pinwheels and tulips. A face
carved into a bumper. Police tape,
like velvet ropes, I am lucky
that I am not a masterpiece,
yet.

It has been months and we are slowly forgetting.
My tires have been erasing your silhouette
from the pavement. I still text and drive.
I feel more comfortable being over the limit
than under it, there is blood in my gas tank.
It just runs smoother that way. I've been taking
the short way to work.

Tell me It's okay to forget. That it's okay
not to think of tire marked torsos
every time I start a car.

With every fresh bouquet, we are trying to
convince ourselves that you are still alive.
We pretend our tires aren't dressed
in your flesh.

Who will clean up a roadside memorial?
When will stuffed animals and flowers
be scraped from curbs? To be considered
trash. That your memory is something uglying
up our streets.

Winter

is telling me enough!
It says we should be done mourning by now.
"This death is not permanent. We will forget you
as if you were alive again. Like a belated
birthday. An unsent invitation."

The snow is covering the flowers. Balloons
are shrinking back down to earth
and the candles are waiting.
Flame blown out, our eyes
back on the road.

Whiskey Sweat

Drink plenty of water. Lay
face down so you don't choke
when Friday night decides to drag itself
onto Saturday morning's front lawn.

Be thankful for waking up
where you went to sleep.
Some mornings your hands will stretch
to the other side of the bed hoping
to find a stranger. A reminder.
The remains of a sleep not spent
alone. Some nights

you will wish you were brave enough
to have a one night stand. To have skin
like sandcastles, ready to be fingers-deep,
to be torn apart. Open yourself
without feeling like a haunted house.

Forget to prepare your body
for the exorcism. To open the doors.
To warn the neighbors. To beckon
the night.