Christmas Eve, 17 - Hieu Minh Nguyen

The only goodnight kiss I would
receive came from the bright burst

of headlights as he pulled out
of the motel parking lot. Each raw

knee, puffy with the negative imprints
of the carpet’s braided teeth. Only the sink

has hot water. No point in showering
when sweat is no longer sweat. You can

no longer see his pulse’s splatter across
the palette. The paint is a different color

when it dries. It’s like he was never here.
The gift was rewrapped. A garland

of meat, unstrung. The glass is full.
Again. Again. The mouth, a clean

gutter. The body, a buffed wall.
This never happened. The botched

deconstruction, tooth by tooth,
each growing back. Smile

digging its way out of a pink grave.
Everything is fine. Nothing is gone.