by Hillary Nguyen
I stole my father’s suit jacket
Before it became mine—
Tenderly, oversized and engulfed
In it, proud, powerful. I can inhale a blue
Whale in this tux, deep into my diaphragm, then
Blow you a balloon bouquet. I’ll wear these
Pressed silhouette lines
That are also soft to the touch; curves of fine
Fabric that is worn with hugs and pats
On the back but also soaked in alcohol
Induced scream-singing and unabashed
Goosebumps that tickle the satin lining;
I’ll wear it until it is worn
In every stitch and seam, with soda can
And champagne flute condensation
On the sleeve edges, and the lapels lick
The sweat of your perfect palms
When you kiss me like you can’t
Picture anyone else wearing it.
Hillary Nguyen (she/her) is a Vietnamese-American writer from the Bay Area who enjoys experimenting with creative mediums (such as spoken word and written poetry, photography, and fiber arts). Her work has been featured in One Art Poetry, midsummer magazine, and Hot Pot Magazine. In her spare time, she enjoys exploring any eclectic, elegant, and extraordinary places she can find.