Phantom Limbs

How the body remembers

is not at all like how the mind does.

The severing of one’s memory is

Like losing a limb

All along, you reach for the glass half full,

arm outreached, when suddenly

you realize neither the glass nor the arm is even there.

This isn’t a love poem

This isn’t a love poem but

me trying to find a way to love you right to

give back how good you give it to me

Try and find the words between

the body and mind, say,

create words that touch you

like my lips, yours

like my ass, your hands

like my inner thighs, your hips

This isn’t a love poem but

me trying to feel you despite distance

reach for you

by the memory of

your sounds as your warmth spills inside me

the heat of your neck I soak in with my lips

your eyes’ shine as you watch me turn with you inside me

This isn’t a love poem but

it is this, a tasting

so you know

how the whole of you

is loved,

how each crease of every finger

how each line of the palms

how each strand of stubble

every sigh and giggle of you

fully completely wholly.

how silly of me (to say I write yet)

be so unable

to find the words

to tell you precisely

this lusting of the heart.

The Prawn’s Tale

My mother tells me how she

never got over
her motherlessness.

(I am still working on it myself.)

Over coursed Chinese cuisine,

I tell her I felt

compelled to find her,

partially thanks to my father.

“You know, Dad never once said a single thing bad about you.”

She replies, “How could he? I never gave him any reason to.

He was the only one who did anything wrong.”

I sit, eyeing the split back of the giant prawn.

Picking it up, gently twisting off its head

peeling the skin off its back,

I push the flesh out.

An eye dangles to meet mine.

“It depends on whose side to tell a story from.”

The Guilty

Opening the door to leave

he watches her smile,

her eyes vacant rooms

chandeliers cobwebbed

dusty white sheets on furniture,

it has been so long

he has forgotten what was under them.

Turning back to say goodbye once more

he sees the door close.

It is funny

but in dreams

she hums

suspended in screeching silence.

When he moves to touch her,

she flinches as if he is a fist

about to clock her

to scatter all her teeth

on the damp spring soil

like Silver Queen corn kernels.

Excuse

For nine months,

you take the time to know

her name, mutter it even in your sleep.

Say it aloud to bring her into being.

Practice what to call her

when the time is right.

When she comes to town,

she breaks every bough of tree,

uproots your home whole

mauling the gardenia garden

deforming the green truck left out to rust.

As you leave her,
you think

This is why she is the child you refused to get to know

the one you let go

never raised,

the rogue and raging.

Brief Encounter

A man with large hands

waits in line behind me.

The glass of the vending machine

reflects my restless eyes.

They tell me

my face would be missed

but no one ever tells me by whom

so I tell myself I am missed, saying my name aloud

remembering what I was called.

Then, I wondered

if the last time he kissed me

did I taste good

or just good enough for now?

I wanted to tell him

I was all out of that flavor.

My mother once told me

that girls like me are

like airport waiting areas,

only for the time in between

for nodding off to the fluorescent flashing

before a red-eye flight,

like the sticky stains

of the latch-key kid who was left home alone till dawn

calling for her father whose broad back was more familiar.

My mother said

that girls like me are

like the dingy armchairs of

passing through for a stranger who is waiting for

a connecting flight on his way home to his wife.

He is up now.

He glances over at me leaning on the wall

as he fumbles for change.

He presses B4 for chips, gets cookies instead

Smiles saying, “You’ll do for now.”

#Defector

You still sleep with your bedroom door locked

your front door bolted and

Chained
as you are to those memories

how you slept with your most faithful lover (fear).

Tonight
you lie awake with
streams of silver from your lit eyes.
He is still circling just above your head.

Though now,
your belly is thick and full

your lips moist
your head un-cracked

you still remember.

The night he raided your room

sifted the jewel of your body out of your blankets
stripped you
placed bills into your privates, your open mouth,
as you lay on cool concrete floors
speaking gasps like your native tongue.

He asked
"Where were you headed?"

He is smiling.
Crisp. Square. Thick. Solid.
His boots shiny

till the first contact
with your flesh which holds onto each blow like a catcher’s mitt.

An elbow crumbles
your spirited nose line
cracking your face down to your jaw
now unhinged
your mouth gaping open to taste the sour air.

You swear to yourself that
when you open your eyes
you will gather yourself
each piece
and go.

It's just

even after the Leaving
even after you've finally done it and you've finally won
no bolt or lock
can unchain you from his sweat-infused scent,
how it smells of your blood and spit
curdling at the back of your/his throat.

How even now,
each time you try to smile,
the crack beneath the sealed skin still begins
to part.

**

This poem is about North Korean defector and survivor who was caught in China, beaten and raped. It is based on an actual occurrence as described from a KBS documentary.