Arranged
By Hieu Minh Nguyen
my grandmother tells me you are very pretty
your smile not of a girl but of a package
teeth straight and perfectly arranged
like each petal in a bride’s bouquet
your smile not of a girl but of a package
you are presented to me as a trophy
like each petal in a bride’s bouquet
a haunting hiding underneath a veil
you are presented to me as a trophy
in my sheets there’s a continent between us
a haunting hiding underneath a veil
we will sleep in separate beds
in my sheets there’s a continent between us
wedding photos hang in the walk-in closet
we will sleep in separate beds
make a habit out of undressing in the bathroom
wedding photos hang in the walk-in closet
teeth straight and perfectly arranged
make a habit out of undressing in the bathroom
my grandmother tells me you are very pretty
The Gay ’90s, Minneapolis, Minnesota, 18+
after Sierra DeMulder
By Hieu Minh Nguyen
This is where the straight people go
to watch The Gays. They come
wearing pride and proud in fishnet
costumes. They come to watch the main event
of smoke and sweat and mirrors.
We are your #1 fans! They have all come
to see The Show: See the Cock Swallower.
The Dancing Bears. Come watch those Strong
Women. The Married Men
all cramming into one bathroom stall.
Bring a beard and a moist towelette.
It’s a five dollar cover. It’s a good time. Tip
the bartender,
smile for the cameras, show off your shimmy.
The audience is watching. They are waiting
for you to do a trick. Roll over. Sit.
Tater Tot Hot-Dish
By Hieu Minh Nguyen
The year my family discovered finger-food
recipes, they replaced the roast duck with a turkey,
the rice became a platter of cheese and crackers,
none of us complained. We all hated the way the fish
sauce made our breath smell. When the women
started lightening their hair, we blamed it on the sun.
When Emily showed up with blonde highlights
and an ivory boyfriend we all started talking
about mixed babies. Overjoyed with the possibility
of blue eyes in the family photo. That year
I started misspelling my last name, started reshaping
myself to have a more phonetic face. Vietnam
became a place our family pitied,
a thirsty rat with hair too dark and a scowl
too thick. That year a porcelain Jesus made its way
onto the bookshelf. We stopped going to temple
and found ourselves a church. I took my shoes off
outside of the cathedral out of habit and my mother
hid her embarrassed tan face in a cotton scarf.
When she closed her eyes and bowed her head
to prayers she couldn’t understand, I left religion
in the back seat of our new-used Ford Focus.
That was the year I stopped praying, and started thinking
in English.
Hieu Minh Nguyen is a Minnesotan. He is the author of This Way to the Sugar (Write Bloody Press, 2014). His work has also appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as Anti-, The Journal, decomP Magazine, PANK, Muzzle, Indiana Review and other journals. He works at a haberdashery.
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