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perhappened mag
issue 2: ROAD TRIP

i drove you home
for the last time

KIMBERLY NGUYEN
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my foot trembled on the gas the whole seven hours           we left tire tracks on our memories

i was still coughing up fragments                of grief, denial, and a bad cold                 so i took cough drops
to soothe the pain            i mistook the numbness for hope                and suppressed each truth trying to
crawl its way out              tried to stop my body          from expelling all its excess            i held my breath
until i turned blue           drowned my lungs              because i forgot how to let it out       until it all burst
from me             and i lost my breath on the new jersey turnpike              heading south//

i knew this was goodbye              though we said see you later           i tied all our sentences together
so there would be no endings                  i should’ve said i love you                  but i set my breath free
and it never came back             to be honest, you should’ve known                                   should’ve figured it out
after we had unpacked all the boxes                                 had made your new bed and laid in it
covered ourselves with dust                                and all we left unsaid                                    and both of us, afraid
to kick it up into the air again              afraid to make a cloud that would pour honest rain
              let it settle//

ask all the gods               i sent each one so many prayers                 i burned the road map so that its smoke
would reach you            i sent you signs that pointed back to me                        i wrapped the smoke around
your ankles        and tried to drag you

               but you know what they say if you love someone//

these days i return to the car       and climb in the backseat             i watch all the moments before i knew
they were final                 i take the trip again and again                    watch our two ghosts flicker
an over-loved vhs cassette fading from overuse               here                       i give you back this memory
it is yours to keep             i don’t need it anymore
tonight, i return to the car              and get in the driver’s seat                i drop you off, say see you later
turn the key in the ignition
and drive away//

Kimberly Nguyen is a Vietnamese-American poet currently living in Brooklyn, NY. She is a recipient of the Beatrice Daw Brown Prize for Poetry, and her poems have been published in Parentheses Journal, Meniscus Literary Journal, and diaCRITICS. Her latest poetry collection, ghosts in the stalks, was published last November. She is on Twitter and Instagram @knguyenpoetry.
perhappened mag
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header photo: clay banks (unsplash)

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