Sleeping Heart

you held my hand in yours
and drifted off to sleep,
you clung to my arm
like a small child
and closed your eyes,
as the sun set golden
among the green tea hills
and the pale blue ocean,
you clung to me
and fell asleep.

(for April 1st)

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Songs

Peace,
they are just whispers but
my heart is jumping in my chest
last night as the rain came down,
the elders gathered
at their television screens
and watched those whispers
travel through song
to heal a broken land,
today the sun shines bright
the birds are chirping and
the toast shop was busy,
when a group of college girls
said “oh, that’s last night’s thing”,
myself and the uncle waiting
for our toast smiled,
our hearts keep beating
our heads keep swimming
with that tiniest possibility-
peace.

Moderately Old

The black hole 
Of the 
Window 
Where you sleep

The night breeze 
Carries 
Something sweet 
A peach tree” -Mitski, First Love/Late Spring

I miss you
the elegance of your fearless desperation,
launching yourself
keen to be the bullet
which buries itself
in the heart of your lover, he never denied
your subtle intensity
so you whisked yourself away on
the warm April nights, now the lilacs
bloom among the weeds of
your winter heart, but there is no one
to see their beauty
you are me
and I no longer remember
how to love April nights properly,
my soul sleeps in the dead lands
of T.S. Eliot, historical societies, and
my aching heart
only young when surrounded by
moderately old things.

I Don’t Deserve You

in my messy house
with my overdue paperwork
and all of these thoughts
of dissatisfaction,
angel
I don’t deserve you,
perhaps my reasons for
never walking up
saying, “Hi, I’m me and
I keep noticing you
playing guitar and
singing out your heart”,
is because
honey
I don’t deserve you,
you might be messy too
and self-hating in every way
yet still I’d believe it,
you’re too lovely
I don’t deserve you.

In the end, I just couldn’t make it this year. It shocks me because most years before I have been in school but done better than this. However, I don’t think I realized in undergrad how easy my life was! Here’s the closing poem for May 1st.

Hometown Nights

not a word of warning
about this memory
on restless spring nights,

no crickets calling
no train whistles
no stars,

the city kids here
have never seen the sky like me
clothed in all its diamond glory,

they don’t know the secrets,
of apple orchard drives in the
deep dark night,

the cool, fresh dew
thrilling, calling, to fly
a little faster down those roads,

let me out, let me go
release this wild yearning,
longing for my home.

Mister (아저씨)

that mister won’t leave my head,
like the taste
of good coffee brewed
in the afternoon, he is smoking up
my mind like gray, snowy days
in the cold subway,
true gentleman
sending me off properly,
his sleight frame coming
from somewhere I
might not return,
as I slid down the streets
of Incheon, I saw
my own reflection in the ice,
little frozen rivers
spilling from fish tanks,
where the trapped squid
protests, his tentacles
stuck to the glass,
when your eyes grew wide and
you swore you’d
see me more, I wondered
like I have before
if his hands
knew their way to mine,
mystically, like the air
around him seemed to
make me drunk, starry eyed
that day in the sunlight,
pasty smell of
wet paint and cold stone,
in the past I could see
his body next to me
and never did I take myself
this seriously, the
unnattainable
is our greatest temptation
we shut ourselves down
and block it out,
regardless of the reason
winter is a bad season,
love under blankets and
wrapped up in sweaters,
a dangling lure
on a wire
he’s never said his desire,
might be the same as mine
but I think I saw it
that day
in his warm brown eyes,
or perhaps his embrace
less careful than before,
smelling of his newest
risky behavior,
he won’t get out of my mind.

Technically cheating because I wrote it yesterday, but meh. I think if I hadn’t written it yesterday I would’ve written it today, and I’ll double up today probably anyway because I have an idea in my mind I need to get out. 

Phase

womanhood
is pain, all the objections
we’ve made towards
our past lovers,
tissues
blown into, peeling off
and dying away,
womanhood
is blood, of our mothers
and daughters
given up for life, thousands
of times we lie
and say we’re fine,
womanhood is this
cursed lunar cycle,
the cold yin of my body is
only comforted
with a warm sock
stuffed with rice
microwaved as many times
as this day has come,
womanhood is eleven years old
hiding in the corner
wishing
it would just stop,
womanhood is curling up
on the square
checkerboard
moonlight at midnight
on the carpet, soaking in
the luminescence of our
sister, her coming
and going spells
bringing me closer each day
to that phase, again.