Inland Empress

Red gash on the road

like shame on the run.

Sudden speed bumps stall

my blithe momentum. Still

I hear your voice: Blind

deer in my headlights,

coasting dark on revenge

to rear-end the bald night.

*

Beachside I contemplate

the nature of bank heists,

squandered haste, failure:

Duffel bags in scarlet bloom,

blood dust settling blue

distances between us.

What good is exegesis

when moral bankruptcy

is a unilateral event?

The royal we is just

you, outraged, singing California Dreamin’,

me, naked, counting Benjamins

in Vegas. No one was shot

so we forgot what came next.

*

A cab burps a woman

lugging regret in her purse;

the sight like an ambulance,

blaring and gauche,

her vacancy a temporary condition,

emotional or otherwise.

Would the cop menagerie leave

if the welcome rug was creased?

High off our last kiss, I ran

my mouth to the car, hid

my glee in the trunk, left

the key on the knob.

Your stench, surreptitious;

broken jaw in my closet.

Terry Nguyen is an essayist, critic and poet from Garden Grove, California. Her poetry and fiction have been published by Iterant, The Quarterless Review, Stanchion Zine, Poetry Project and other independent magazines.