TWO POEMS by BRANDON VU

sit next to me at the korean restaurant

i prefer booths
because i want to touch
elbow
to
elbow
make contact with me and
refuse to leave like
wooden chopsticks
pull me until we break
into laughter and try to contain
ourselves before the waiter asks
if we need more kimchi
need me like the air you breathe
but hold it in
because we are driving through the bay bridge
each second prolonging the night
and i don’t want it to end
don’t sit across from me
the distance there
is time wasted
i want to feel
your breath
in my ear
chatter until the bulgogi
gets cold
and tell me
you’re okay with staying
a little after
closing.

---

i lost my mom at circus circus

i blinked and she was
nowhere to be found
the floor was flooded and
a sea of people
swarmed in every direction

‍ ‍how did i not feel her slip away?

i saw the same cotton candy
that mom was holding
and the colors moved farther
away, but her scent lingered

‍ can everyone just stay still for one second?

and i was transported to
the exhibit:
the same sea of people
swarming every section

yet you’re here with me.

and we sneak to the other side
with somehow just the two of us:

your eyes glued to the painting
of the boston terrier and
your scent was just like
lavender.

---

Brandon Vu is an educator in the Bay Area. He was a member of season 22 of AWP’s Writer-to-Writer Program and was the finalist for the 2025 Goldline Press Chapbook competition. His work has appeared in diaCRITICS, KQED, and The San Franciscan.