Poetry by Brian Nguyễn

Edited by Ariana Vargas

Unspool me, until I am threadbare.

Your fingers are wrapped around mine as we tug
along the cutting-edge of California, our shoulders
kissing as the train-sway rocks you gently awake.

There are things you can’t help but forget.

I look out the window to intense, blonde pastures—
the mountainous in-between, jaundiced,
with only the green relief of memory.

Some things ease their way into remembrance

I look at you—the rise of your breath
almost imperceptible on your chest
as mine becomes a cavern, waiting
for you: my dénouement.