Something I say beforehand:
Jal butak hapnida.
This translates into Please be kind to me
but it suggests:
Even if I shame myself
please be kind to me.
In the mirror, it means:
Even inside my greatcoat
of conscience, drunk and white,
please be kind to me.
At night, as Mom had, I rubbed
my wrists with ginkgo lotion.
They rested by my face
and I fell asleep smelling her.
Each morning in my garage-home,
I boiled salt water with pepper sauce,
used the same chopstick to stir.
I drank it.
Since I had no phone, she shipped
kimchi packets that ripened on the trip.
She sent letters from Seoul;
I signed the postal slip on tiptoe
and set them aside—her folded slip
with foreign squares, short crosses,
crowding the page, covering the creases.
A-802 Adena Luce
My new room had blushing walls and glow stars
stuck to the ceiling with wet rice.
She had put a pair of socks on the nightstand
so I would feel
I had been there yesterday and pitched them
to the floor. Cleaning, she would have
picked them up, flipped their ankles and left them
by my bed. I wouldn’t feel like a foreigner. My mother
wouldn’t worry. From the hall, behind the door,
I heard, Do you eat fish?
South Korean Ferry Accident
276 Dead (232 Students)
28 Missing (Underwater)
1 Rescued Found Dead (Suicide)
Search operation is still ongoing.
Footage is released to the public: the captain
abandoning the ferry in his underwear. Barefoot, he jumps
into another man’s arms. On screen, his face is purple.
He knew the ferry was 300 times over capacity, they say.
He knew the lifeboats were broken, the cargo was tipping.
After the footage, the ferry owner’s son disappears.
The captain is charged with murder. A senior official
of the inspection company SeaTrust is arrested.
I once took the same ferry route between Incheon
and Jeju Island. The decks were green.
The students heard over the speakers: “Do not move
from your present location and stay where you are.”
My parents are crying in the other room. “Why didn’t
the students jump into the water?
Americans would’ve jumped.” My mom is saddest
about the moment of drowning.
They’re 15-year-olds. At that age, I believed in God.
Who says love that is painful is not love?
For the first time, my mom says to me, “Korea was wrong.
My country did wrong.”
The mother of a deceased boy dove into the ocean.
The officers fetched her out, and she appeared on television,
saying, “My son is in that dark and cold water.”
A volunteer committed suicide. The prime minister stepped down.
The South Korean TV stations ban music, variety shows, and games
for 3 weeks. My mom wakes me
in the middle of the night. “If you are on a sinking ship,” she says,
“Don’t trust anybody. Don’t listen to anybody.”
During a memorial service, a pastor who witnessed the cleaning
and shrouding of the bodies said, “How much the students must have
scraped at the walls while trapped in the ferry that their fingernails
have all fallen off.” The chapel broke out in tears.
Another footage from inside the ship is uploaded on YouTube
under the request of parents of the deceased student.
The footage is broadcast. The faces are blurred.
The voices are changed. They are laughing
for a brief second of nervous excitement. “Do you think
we’ll become famous?” someone says, “Like the Titanic?”
To My Mother Kneeling in the Cactus Garden
For a month I tried to think of what to say.
How many times you’ve swept a kitchen knife
across your neckline and said, This is how
you end a marriage. How many more wicks you light
for God. I could tell by your eyes you’ve never
seen him. What would you call the feeling
of abandon and caution and relief that keeps me
tethered to you? Let me be the husband
you prayed for, the son you wanted, or mother
who held you. I’ll build your new patio swing
and fold your coffee linens, wash your hardened
feet in warm water. To me you have become a prison
of its own light. I’ll grow greens and the parsley
you love and wrap them into cold sandwiches.
I will place them where you can reach with ease.
Ingredients for Memories That Can Be Used As Explosives
I am not sad anymore; I am on the rooftop of my life
cheering until my body of hallways opens, jade and steaming.
When a pope dies tradition says to hit his head with a silver
hammer 3 times to see if he’s alive: koong koong koong koong.
I’ve been so many popes. The shells of laughing are cooked.
Open the door and let them know I am not sad anymore.
Not once carrying my lunch pail soul with bright green fingernails—
Can a soul be excited to tears? That’s the one time a soul is excited.
I am together – feel my forehead – I am young
but I always forget what I meant to say; except I am alive!
And I will not jump from here because the wind is coming.
It has a beak and a tooth and has heard I am not sad anymore.
You don’t know how good it is to be female
You don’t know how good it is to be Asian
You don’t know how good it is to be ages 25-30
I have all these things
you do not have
so you cannot know
the little that people expect of me,
the little they expect me to understand
or speak or know or provide.
Because of that everything I do
is always impressive.
Every time I want to be
I am so utterly impressive.
6CO2 + 6H2O light→ C6H12O6 + 6O2
I am trying to make an equation to convert light
into reasonable dioxide.
Put your fist like a rock over your chest, say:
I am ahead of the future if I am a kind tiger
swimming underwater. I’ll live in a little river
house because I am really a scientist.
If I am an alien, then families surprise me most.
Biological lottery: staying with whoever bore you
or whoever was born of you. Primate: hoping
you don’t dislike those you meet/are lucky not to.
Person depressive + Person angry → Person suppressive
Person suppressive + Person happy → Person liar
You’ve ruined it Mom and Dad. You’ve evolved
humankind into liars. 4 billion years should have
photosynthesized reason and your crapulous genes
to liberate a good person. Good people:
when you see one, then see them everywhere
it’s called the Baader Meinhof phenomenon. Sounds
like a baseball player with a gun; or a dead person
the color of cooked chicken; or quicksilver.
I don’t want happiness to chase me: I want metallic
blues in miscellany. You don’t want to calculate
your molecular life: You want to be overwhelmed.
always sit in swivel chairs that won’t fit under low desks.
A fireplace log shifts
and the center leg of a table sinks without sound.
You can tell a ghost is here when the dog sniffs plaster walls,
or your left elbow itches, or windowpanes
bend where the sun hits.
Just now the staircase called out, old wood rasping.
A ghost has drifted in and he
settles like dust with nothing to gain or lose,
a sculpture in a museum—
until headlights cast beams across the ceiling,
bursting the shadows. If I say
ghost out loud, he will hover over the vacant seat at the table,
a voyeur from my past. No wonder
I enter the house like a visitor.
My Father in His Old Age
There is a Korean belief that you are born
the parent of the one you hurt most. Watching
my father use chopsticks to split chicken katsu,
he confesses that I may be the reincarnation
of his own father. We finished our waters in silence
and walked home chatting about who to blame
for where we are. He says, the present is the revenge
of the past. Revenge goes too far, I argue. And
in our unhappiness, we both want to know
we cannot pay enough. Pain becomes meaning.
After this life, I fear I’ll never meet him again.
My Father the Musician
Even now my father plays his guitar inside his breast.
It was troublesome at first—
packing it away like pickling cabbage. He rinsed it in wine
vinegar, mustard seed, and peppercorns.
He quartered the tough outer leaves and grated the stem.
Now he gathers his body and bows before bowing.
He lies down a commoner and hands himself to the bed.
This is the chorus of godliness or decay.
In the pockets of my father’s work clothes, his hands
are mice running the wire wraps, but when I look at him—
from my periphery, I see the ghost in him strumming, preserved
in its brine. Tell me what you wanted.
If you want to take
up space, first see
how small you are
like rocks, honey-
combs, and charcoal
heating. In the sky
the clouds are combed
like rabbit fur. If I
remember this, I am
not dreaming. You place
the flowered twig
behind my ear, mark
of my learning you
in bluebell, a person
small like me, but higher.
There is always too little. The tea-stained tablecloth creases
where my hand rests. My head wilts. I sit and sit (my body
grows over the hide of the chair). To me, it seems the body
knows what it is to forget. Aroma of apple and figs and a memory
draw blush from my cheek. Not unlike the time I watched
the wind going and going, and taking with it bellyfuls of millet.
My mother in the other room is stirring a saucepan, making
round sounds. I lived unaware of how the stunning bird offered
herself to the bluff. Her milk-wings, umbrellas, folding.
On my left, a breeze drums the padlock. The fruits roll
onto their softened sides. I hear booted mudfeet at the door.
Ants cross water. The knives tune themselves. The jug
(open with its handle bent on its high hip wants to say
something about seeing truth). I am sick in my own way.
Yellow pears, basketfuls, relate to distance
between the you and the me – mu.
Startling up as you walk goosefooted
through my door. I am heavy.
I feel the continent under me. I am 99
Through me, the cosmos can look at itself.
Come to the sink. Let me wash your feet.
Why do you call me embalmer
when my job is time mechanic?
Come with me. I know which home takes the turning,
which mind washes in hot water.
I am the shelter you need –
needle-threaded with the truth of dark wood.
They say the mother in my world has no pulse.
They say the god I talk about is not the god people fear.
They say the subject of race is no exception.
They say I have difficulty with the surfaces, the echoes, the sudden, the no longer there.
They say the shape of the crown on my head is only a narcosis of motherlessness.
They say I am cracked. I am no river but a lizard against a backdrop of oddly
reigned and oblique conversations of people.
I am common, they say, a commoner.
I am a map of betrayal, of refusal to prick into our times.
I am no storyteller, only troubled.
I am not sad, nor inventive, nor magnetic.
I am forgettable man and forgettable woman.
I have done nothing more than create an angry reader
with a sense that nothing is profound, all is meaningless.
I have no friends with cancer.
I have no career and no future.
I have no finest and most famous work that tells a story of a small town.
I do not live in Nebraska, Montana, or Michigan.
I was not born in Colombia with a prize for literature in 1982.
They say, deeper and deeper, I prove there is nothing in me
hard-earned or spiritual or broken. They say I will never have enough to lose.
There is no judge, nor critic, nor author, nor poet that is my friend.
There is no great enterprise in my life.
There is no cult of personality.
There is no exquisite tension created in my deftly stiff juxtaposition of images.
There is no death like the death of expectations after I dare to rear up and ripple language against the innocent pressure of readers that must compromise
nature itself to look upon me.
There is no exuberantly constructed richness in my speech, my speech
that is so unsophisticated in its use, a betrayal of literary traditions
from the language of the Bible to Faulkner.
No words of mine should be required for the entire human race.
My real gift is for my exceptionally non-diverse work.
My words are the most unenticing choices of our century’s literature.
My words punish the reader. My words do not convey sincerity.
My premature, debilitated, crippled words without meaning of drama or self-discovery.
By calling my words poetry, they would be denying its considerable failure as words.
I am irresistible to flies.
I am lame.
I am ugly and sometimes, achingly so.
I am challenged, narrow, and dull.
I am never a delight and never full of lyrical variety that distinguishes a rich tradition
of allusiveness. They say I am an artist that fails both a private and national heritage.
They say I am not funny.
They say I am tasteless.
They say I am a fugitive.
They say I am disturbing.
They say I am descending and disorienting.
They say I am a box of pins.
They say I am an intimate world, incoherent, private, and unrelatable to culture.
They say I write from a common sensibility that no one can admire.
More than poetry, they have tried to find something human in me.