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    This Way to the Sugar
    This Way to the Sugar
    This Way to the Sugar
    Ebook78 pages33 minutes

    This Way to the Sugar

    By Hieu Minh Nguyen

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    About this ebook

    Hieu Nguyen's bruising collection of poems, This Way to the Sugar, puts a blade and a microscope to nostalgia, tradition, race, apology, and sexuality, in order to find beauty in a flawed world. His work has been described as "an astounding testament to the power and necessity of confession." This powerful book asks whether it might be better "to leave the blade inside the body," whether "forgiveness will bleed you thin."
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWrite Bloody Publishing
    Release dateOct 1, 2018
    ISBN9781938912580
    This Way to the Sugar

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      Book preview

      This Way to the Sugar - Hieu Minh Nguyen

      Alexandria

      BOY

      My mother’s favorite story, a dull one, of course—

      is that she did not scream during my birth,

      instead dug her nails into her sister’s wrist, severing

      a vein, and killing her—I’m only joking.

      She lived. I did say this was her favorite story after all.

      :::

      They say if the mother is silent

      during birth, then the child will grow

      up without the ability to smell or decipher

      maps, but will indeed grow up.

      They say if the baby is born silent,

      then it’s probably a faggot, or dead,

      or will be eventually.

      :::

      He was a stupid child. Ate dirt they said. Ate glass

      and people’s wallets. Kept a farm of cigarette butts

      in his cheeks. Smelled like a highway,

      but sounded like a boy.

      Stood on the overpass and swore

      he could hear her screaming.

      I

      "I’m not lost for I know where I am.

      But however, where I am may be lost."

      — A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

      A/S/L

      Tonight, I am unhooking my jaw.

      I am telling him everything

      he wants to hear. My breath fogging

      up the computer screen like a wet ghost.

      I am cracking open my lips with a cherry.

      how old r u? I tell him I am 19—I am lying.

      I am 14. I tell him my name is Steven—

      that’s a nice name. I haven’t done this

      before. He tells me he is 43. do u mind?

      No. I tell him I am all alone. Painting

      myself in leather and candle wax. Does that turn

      you on? He thinks I smell like sweat

      and mint. I am five inches taller, a hundred

      pounds lighter. I have green eyes and copper hair.

      I’ve been so naughty. I live next to an orchard

      of white lies. I am plucking fuller lips off the vine,

      covering my face, my thighs, fat in dirt. I am growing

      a bigger dick. I am sending him pictures of strangers.

      I don’t tell him I am soft. I don’t tell him about my history

      homework. I tell him, I am typing with my tongue

      I am so hard. Hanging my clothes out to dry

      on a strand of drool. Only responding with Yes

      and Yes and Yes. There’s no unwilling mouth.

      I am spoon-feeding him

      my right arm. I am only here to please, to moisturize

      his palms, to spit-shine the screen. u r perfect. I am

      picturing him faceless, in some dry town,

      in a room thick with lights, masturbating

      in front of a mirror, to nothing.

      MCDONOUGH HOMES

      The only thing that separated my house

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