SoMa
Even though it stands: the biggest sky of my life
remains above that strip mall parking lot,
I don’t think I could ever go back.
The blurry drives with no destination,
reaching for something, who knows what, beyond
the sunroof. Dragged a couch onto a frozen lake.
Chased small things into the corners.
Swiped at it with a broom. Dreamt
of my dead & was made of that dreaming.
If asked now what keeps my attention,
I’d point to the stage where some queen
trapped in time, mouths the words
to a song only she knows.
Something gray saps the back of my throat.
What saves my teeth from my teeth
is a piece of gum older, I think, than millennia.
Before I even realize he’s gone, my lover returns
& hands me a cup of water.
More & more it means something to be alive.
It’s important that I write this now before I forget,
this now which has happened so suddenly
I have to rub my eyes to join it, this now which might
seem insignificant for those of you reading
over my shoulder as I type this out on my phone
in the middle of the dance floor.
The rude & sudden light, for which I apologize.
Copyright © 2025 by Hieu Minh Nguyen. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 24, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
“I wrote this poem while dancing, in a bar somewhere south of Market [Street], nearing the end of the night, trying to remember everything with urgency—the urgency that comes when you want something forever.”
—Hieu Minh Nguyen