Here are the utensils I prepared
for you. You are free
to set them
on the table, claim
the meal as your own. Maybe
you are too familiar with Korean
sayings. Sorry, I'll rephrase
in American. I am glad to have you
again. To see
your bowl of rice develop
craters, to be crushed
between you and your
other, knees forced together in the small
table next to the kitchen. I am glad
that when I joke
with my friends, I no longer
am able to
say: Is that you,
Daddy?
and retreating.
Every poem I write a love poem.
The boy chasing me with the threat
of the sea dripping from his hands.
How brotherhood is defined
by language; he calls me hyung.
I let out my breath,
the ribcage a map
creating cavities like a path
drawn in the sand.
How the wave approaches. I breathe in again,
look back and see he’s stopped.
There's nothing to offer this life,
so I offer him advice.
He takes it and runs.
Runs like he has life at his fingertips.
read more