Peacocks Were Patient Enough to Paint on Their Feathers

I visited the arboretum
in Arcadia for a date. 
A peacock honks as if it knows I should’ve stayed
home. The day before I got my shin tattooed
with a vase. I always end up with flowers
on new work because as a kid my mother would take me
to pick up potted, red chrysanthemum plants
for Lunar New Year & she would say: bông đẹp quá.
& I, too, want to be pretty
as flowers are pretty in my carpenter pants
with my screen-printed long sleeve tucked in.
This time the ink has a window
& within it, a girl with her hand, pressed against
my leg is trying to break free. Much like myself.
To be is hard work.
I play it real cool with my date as they are standing
next to me, while my shin is throbbing, uncontrollably.	
Another peacock honks.
This is also hard work, these stairs
leading up to the wisteria trees, overseeing the city.
The light medium violets are kept by the branches,
surrounded by squashed darker petals on the ground.
I start to remember the archer, Hậu Nghệ,
my parents told me about who shot down
9 out of 10 suns, so the people then wouldn’t burn.
So that I can exist. So that you can, too.
The entire earth was red. The grass. Red.

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Growing up in Los Angeles, Alina Nguyễn spent most of her childhood in laundromats. She is the proud daughter of Vietnamese immigrants, and the author of the chapbook, Before There Were More Ghosts, from Tomorrow Today. She earned her M.F.A. from the California State University-Long Beach and is currently a Ph.D. student at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln.