I never saw her wear it
out of the house. Confined
to the thin frame
of that floor-length mirror,
that floor-length dress.
Watching her sway
in her bedroom,
I learned beauty
was something to be
practiced. How to walk
with it. How to hold it out
for someone to touch.
Each time she caught me
wearing it she’d cry, then pray—
it hurt her, I imagine, to know
her son was being called away
by another woman.
I wailed when she made me
throw it in the trash, but stayed
silent when she came at me
with the hanger.
How was I to know beauty
was something I could ruin
for others by trying it on?
Excerpted from Staying Still by Hieu Minh Nguyen. Copyright © 2026 Hieu Minh Nguyen. Published with permission from Tin House, an imprint of Zando, LLC.