by: Mimi Nguyen
Shhh, It’s Our Song.
Listen. They’re playing our song. Let’s lean against this weeping willow. The stars will burst before long and then we can dance real slow. Shh. Listen. They’re playing our song. Please, I hope they get it right, before you and I get it wrong. Come on baby, lean with me. I want to show you something. See that? Look through the tree leaves. There’s Vega making Lyra sing. Can you hear her strumming? Softly. Secretly. Silently. Look, her light is tearing through the branches of our tree and giving your eyes their glow. Baby, why are you crying? Shh, we can take this real slow. You are all mine tonight. I’m right here. I’ll follow you anywhere. Not giving up this fight. No amount of bruising can stop me. I’d travel far and wide. Ain’t losing you. Like this tree our love was once a seed. Shh. Listen, they’re playing our song. Soiled and spurting up from the ground, each leaf’s reach a silent plea. Shh, sweet baby, don’t make a sound. Listen, our love grows with the tree. I can hear her hushed screaming, stretching out, trying to free herself from earth’s grasp. Like her, I cannot be without my light. I’ve only begun to show you what I mean. Come on baby, dance with me. Take my hand, sweet shining queen. Sway with me beneath our tree. Let us rock between the seasons, they change us new. You’ve seen me for all the stupid shit I’ve done. And baby let us agree, I’m a blubbering fool next to you. Can’t get anything right. But my love, it reflects through this song I sing. It’s the wild beating of my heart, the deep humming of our tree. I don’t ever want us apart. Without you, where would I be? It’s not a long way to fall from heaven to hell. Listen. Shh, they’re playing our song.
Tien (Mimi) Nguyen is a former TriQuarterly Online Art Director, and nonfiction and fiction editor. She is currently pursuing an MFA in creative nonfiction at Northwestern University. She contributes regularly to TriQuarterly Online and has worked for The Long Beach Press-Telegram, Runes Literary Magazine and The Iowa Review.
