Collage of Seoul. Jae Newman

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      reminds me of another time,

      another spring

      before I had allergies

      when staring at strange snow falling up

      might have touched the chord,

      an echo on my spine.

      Hikikomori

      If a plant cannot live according to its nature, it dies; and so a man.

      –Thoreau

      Following blue footprints

      painted on cold sidewalks,

      I disappeared behind an old hospital.

      Laying on a white H,

      I searched the sky

      for helicopters or falling stars.

      Removing shards of parental debris,

      I covered my torso in snow,

      buried what sought translation, escaped

      a body I never wanted

      or felt was mine. It’s easy to mistake

      electricity as light. Harder

      to convince a flower it’s fine,

      a lamp is the sun.

      There are one hundred twelve varieties of the lie

      and I am not above a few.

      How many clung to me as I stood?

      Drawn toward a playground,

      I touched chains upholding swings,

      set metal in motion.

      I have no business being here.

      Land of the Morning Calm

      There is no want in me but for you:

      drag a honeycomb through my hair,

      deaden all thoughts of dismantling

      this stinger in my spine. Mother,

      they bleached you into obscurity. Infants

      don’t fly, and so, you painted stripes on me,

      made me a Korean bee with a quiet stinger

      to help me collide with the Yellow Sea.

      When I am torn up about who I am,

      I take comfort where comfort stings,

      sit alone at sunset watching a black sky

      swallow tiny silver planes, but nothing

      can keep me from swarming the aviary,

      a Buddhist bumblebee in the dead of February.

      One Hundred Words for Snow

      I whisper Yhwh against a rage

      that has cost me more than fingers and toes.

      I could not hold, bury, or escape

      the shape of your grief. It moved

      along glaciers snapping the ends

      of islands into the sea.

      Lips pressed to sleeve, I carried

      mouthfuls of your dust mumbling dead prayer,

      prayers made and lost within the solitude

      of imagined Alaskan parks where

      I chased your sorrow only to discover

      the land where mine is local legend.

      Vanishing woman, the way to the Bering Strait

      is lined with lessons of your winter.

      I travel by foot against evidence

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