A Patient’s Family Asks What Do I Know
In the ICU, my friend washes another friend’s
face with the serum and cream samples
they hoarded from Sephora. Nurses envy
his clean, virgin skin. Saintly, as if,
a week into our friendship, he hadn’t flexed
his mouth into a perfect O, ringed three fingers
around an imaginary dick to teach me the way
of efficient blowjobs. He made himself sick
on expensive gummies. He wouldn’t listen
to me complain about a Harajuku pencil case
I couldn’t afford. If you want it,
then want it. My gorgeous
boys and I left each other notes
with addresses of men we met online
just in case. Stuffed ourselves
into brushed out wigs just to heat up
nachos in the microwave.
When I die
I know my loves will be dragged
up in sequins and blush, will cut the cake
with their contour. In the ICU,
my patient’s mom strokes his cheekbone
while he sleeps. You should have known him
before this. She means before this but after
he returned to her after years of absence.
Of course my loves and I held secrets
from each other—what kind of family would we be
if we didn’t gift each other the space
to learn hunger and feast in our own language?
I don’t know enough of anything.
I don’t think as much as do, as much
as want and miss and admire. We hold each other
his mom and I, the morning we arrive
and he is gone. There is no rush,
I want to say to her. Our handsome
boys. We will know them again and again
when we’re reborn as trees joined at the trunks,
a set of summer winds on the nude beach,
a handful of hard candies
melted into rainbow.
Previously published in Aquifer: Florida Review Online
Ode to Bossy Bottoms
Marvel, popped up
like tulips in snow.
Urgent bell
in a boxing ring,
sharp as the lip
of a rocks glass. Music
box of baubles
that bites us back.
Lit, uncracked
coil, tin pan
batter boiling over.
Hello, sour cherry center
-fold. Good night,
miracle text, book
shut around my finger,
filled with the pressings
and beautiful names
of all the things
that belong to you.
Previously published in Pleiades
Cadaver Lab
I figured it’d be months without laughter.
Understandably. On pelvic dissection day
my friend Amelia whispers I’m sorry,
girlfriend before starting the saw.
Another friend unknowingly holds
his cadaver’s hands during the biggest
incisions. Classmates I don’t even like
point out veins and nerves to spare me
hours of inhaling fat and fascia. Then
one group finds the penis pump we decides
yes he meant it as a surprise and the boys
fist bump his cold hands. Another group
shares their cadaver’s perfect pink polish,
another has fresh, unwrinkled ink
across her chest. Like tiny treasures
for us. Of course no one donates their body
without a sense of humor. Of course the body
is a gift. We admit on dissection days
we all leave hungry, specifically for chicken.
I’ve booked my calendar with sex
as if to practice how the blood flows
while it can. One boy I bring home
had a scar down his sternum, a souvenir
of a heart condition. He apologized
for it, even years later, like I minded
how it puckered at me. I imagined the lights
baring down on him, how those lucky hands
got to press against his skin.
Previously published in Aquifer: Florida Review Online
Angier, NC
I read about the winner
of the Harris Teeter gift card
and saw Angrier, North Carolina.
A mistake small enough
to slip in your pocket
in the checkout line.
But I admit I’m angry.
Four of my friends died this year.
I would have more save-
the-dates for wakes than weddings
on my fridge if 30-year-olds did that.
You maybe see now
why I am angry
my friend said he was scared
to die alone and I said he was silly
instead of let’s get married!
I admit my fist has tightened
around my steering wheel
as if to say I’m ok if I’m not
screaming, as if to say look
at all the control I have.
I admit I’m so angry that I cry
at surprise proposals now.
I’m so angry I write down
everyone’s birthday.
So angry I demand unending hugs.
I’m lousy and bloated
with love. In anger I apologize
for not congratulating you soon,
Lisa M. of Angier, North Carolina.
I’m angry and I wish you the bounty
of double coupon day, of dented cans
sold for cheap. A slab of bloody roast
with the most perfect marble.
A flat of strawberries near spoil,
right when they’re sweetest.
Previously published as Missouri Review’s Poem of the Week
Eric Tran is a queer Vietnamese poet. His debut book of poetry The Gutter Spread Guide to Prayer won the Autumn House Press Rising Writer Prize and was featured in The Rumpus Poetry Book Club and the Asian American Journalists Association-New York book club. He serves as poetry editor for Orison Press and a poetry reader for the Los Angeles Review. He has received awards and recognition from Prairie Schooner, New Delta Review, Best of the Net, and others. His work appears in RHINO, 32 Poems, the Missouri Review and elsewhere. He completed his MFA at the University of North Carolina Wilmington and is a resident physician in psychiatry in Asheville, NC.