2 Pieces

- Poetry -

Audrey Nguyen, Vietnam & Canada

I (/ai/) n. : Erased – a Google search

can /ai/

can /ai/ be sentient

can /ai/think

can /ai/ go to bed before midnight

can /ai/ blink the loose eyelash away

can /ai/ care

can /ai/ feel the weight

can /ai/ be naked honest for once

can /ai/ deal with afternoon anxiety

can /ai/ write a pretentious eulogy

can /ai/ make near-perfect predictions

can /ai/ fake memory and consciousness

fake /ai/

fake /ai/ voices generator

fake /ai/ face editor free download

fake /ai/ choices

fake /ai/ art, songs, poems, monologues

fake /ai/ pageant answers

fake /ai/ laugh(s) love(s) live(s)

fake /ai/ cries on the internet for sympathy

fake /ai something is inherently wrong

fake /ai/ look inside

fake /ai/

fake /ai/am

/ai/ am

/ai/ am artificially intelligent too

/ai/ am well versed in the art of pretending

/ai/ am not capable of being human

/ai/ am looking up deepfake images of myself

/ai/ am seeing no returns

/ai/ am scared

/ai/ am scared the only light is the screen

/ai/ am scared of merging into the shadows

/ai/ am erased

/ai/ am

/ai/

/ai

/a

/

Tết is the time for bitter melons traditions (khổ qua –hurt shall pass)

Ngoại always walks into the house first on giao thừa. Ngoại sets the tone

for our year. Ngoại’s the luck pioneer. Ngoại believes she will rub off on

all of us - her luck, her charms, her misdirected efforts, her clumsy

affections. Ngoại too wants to start fresh - I can see it in her eyes. We all

want to leave this all behind. We all have eaten canh khổ qua minutes

before this moment. Dì always puts a little bit too much sugar in the

soup. Dì hopes we won’t notice but we always do. Dì promises to lay off

on the sugar but we eat sweet khổ qua every giao thừa. Mẹ and I like it

bitter though, that’s the problem. Mẹ always jokes Dì’s sweet tooth will

give us cavities or obesity. Dì responds by putting more food into my

bowl and so does Mẹ. Then Mẹ says I shouldn’t eat so much by belly

stretches. I shouldn’t eat too much I can’t fall asleep tonight and make

Mẹ sleepless too. I don’t like to turn off the lights when I’m still up. I say

all four of us are scared of the dark. But night lights are dim upstairs and

Ngoại with Dì always gets up before sunrise. Mẹ tells me she’s sleepy

because she’s been sleep deprived all year, tells me she’s worried about

my fucked up sleep schedule, tells me she can’t sleep knowing my eye

bags are getting heavier and sagging. Mẹ keeps talking through the

whole meal, though we both know I’ll pick a collection of Tết shows we’ll

watch until the morning together, and laugh about how Tết used to be

the only times I was allowed to pull all-nighters. But things change.

I correct: Things change around a constant.

Mẹ and I always go upstairs so Ngoại can sleep a bit before midnight

comes. Dì resumes giao thừa preparation around Ngoại’s nap. Mẹ and I

watch shows Dì doesn’t like and never has time to watch anyway. I text

my friends when Mẹ waters the small mai pots. I grow and do better

around Mẹ still always worrying about me, hesitant to fully give me her

trust. We age around the living room every year, gathering to share mứt

Tết. I learn how to properly cúng and thắp nhang for Phật Bà, for Thần

Tài Ông Địa, for Ông Ngoại, for những Ông Bà who had lived here before

and eaten sweet khổ qua and bickered and fought and cried and laughed

and loved and đón giao thừa together. Dì will steep tea while Mẹ cleans

and Ngoại gets ready to xông đất. Ngoại is now too weak to walk far from

the house five minutes before the fireworks bloom. But Ngoại will always

come back. She will always come back, first.

Audrey Nguyen feels intensely, and writes intensely to make people feel. As a PhD candidate in Biochemistry, she enjoys finding the artistic in science, and the scientific in art. Her poetry is often philosophical and instinctive, exploring the turbulence in navigating the modern world. Find Audrey on Instagram at @au.noia