Poetry

Two Poems by Moon Tae Jun

Bag I have been carrying this bag for a long time  In the bag  The beach and its white nape, the waves  A poem re-collected  The light of that day’s last sunset  The sound of farewell trickling down  A lily and a butterfly folded together  A healthy sunflower  A dried leaf on the other side  A word dropped into my ear yesterday  A promise that used to hold me up  The first snowflake of joy and delight  Sadness like a water balloon  Today you are the one carrying it  Walking on the seashore  With me—the lapping waves—  In the bag  Under the Bead Tree I ran under the bead tree to hide from a summer shower Heard my tangled breath slowly unspooling, again and again  Lowered my voice a little and listened to the rain  Like brass bowls, my ears brimmed, overflowed with the sound of the rain That would’ve been just fine had my ear for words gone dull then and there  It’s been quite a long time since I went under a big tree to hide from the pouring rain It is calm enough a place, underneath a big tree Crouching under the bead tree, I stared and stared at the glass-beadlike summer rain  Past the bead tree dressed in a bold-colored shirt The white teeth of raindrops biting into the fresh air

by Moon Taejun

Poetry

Two Poems by Song Jaehak

Ink Rubbing The night before was cloudy, so an ink rubbing was just right. The moon was already soaked through. I gently lifted the seam of the clouds, and saw that to be drenched is the moon’s daily life. I borrowed the hands of the clouds and pressed porous mulberry paper across the whole reach of its light. The moon, unable to endure any longer, wriggled and slipped a furlong in one heave. Sleepless birds took turns going in and out of the glow. I tapped the paper with the dripping stalk of a water hyacinth, and the moon’s breath stopped for a moment. I fed the paper ink as old as the moon itself. The blunt cotton mallet was brought by a cumulus. I struck again, softly rubbing, gently circling, until the page swallowed ink by the bushel: a black eclipse, absolute midnight. Before the moon could sigh, I peeled the paper away and strung it on the long clothesline of the birds’ flight. By morning the rubbing of the moon was hanging: an ink rubbing without edges. The ink uneven, hidden patterns blotched through, but it dried well. One day I would like to see the sheen of a graphite rubbing.   Graphite Rubbing I laid smooth mulberry paper across the moon and rubbed in the graphite, and first it was the coarse bark of trees that stood out. The moon’s faint warmth rose too, a carving in relief. From the collarbone branches of the moon, drowsing birds stirred in their sleep. If I shook the mulberry paper, even the young ones would fly back into the moon. I rubbed the paper again and the water’s surface spread in intaglio. For a moment a silvery surface of water shimmered, but the waterline kept falling. The weeds that once swayed on the lakebed stiffened under fluorescent light. It is all right, I said, all right, as I kept rubbing with patience. Cold silver lines floated up in clusters. They formed the moon’s path, a night-road from evening to dawn. When even the corners softened, a round border appeared, the kind you can hang around your neck. A single silver coin was born. I only wish the things it could purchase would outnumber mere survival.

by Song Jaehak

Poetry

Ten Poems by Shin Hae-uk

the noblewoman and the grandmother “hello, sis!” my sister-in-law waved. we were at the Western Five Tombs, near Goyang.* they were far. but she was there. across the crossing. she raised her hand and  sis, it’s a thousand won to get in.  sis, Jang Huibin is buried here.** they say she got poison. bitter. the grass on these tombs sure is wet.  across the crossing. wearing a dress. hem fluttering. what pairs with sister-in-law? “hello, sis!” i wave back.  i thought i put gloves on. but they were my grandmother’s hands. it’s me! raising my grand-mother’s hand, who got rashes from grass. raised her hand and  it itched. it was the Five Tombs.  they’re far. sunny nationwide yet  somewhere, rain. sometimes, rain. you can head north by northwest. my sister-in-law waved her hand. * Historic landmark in a city outside Seoul.** Jang Huibin was queen of Korea from 1690 to 1694. King Sukjong, entranced by her famous good looks, took her as an official concubine, and after she bore him his first son, deposed his second queen, Inhyeon, and made Jang his consort. But he regretted his actions as his love waned, and as punishment for their politicking, sent Jang and her family into exile. When Queen Inhyeon, restored to her throne, died in 1701, Sukjong demanded Jang’s execution suspecting her of natural or supernatural foul play. Related Article:Record of the Virtue of Queen Inhyeon, Lady Min (Part 1)Record of the Virtue of Queen Inhyeon, Lady Min (Part 2)Record of the Virtue of Queen Inhyeon, Lady Min (Part 3)     hot on my own tail granny’s hot on gran-gran’s heels  behind, grandma, barefoot,  circles the night turning and turning where is she the hazy night  where is she gran-gran shakes off granny  i think you’re going in circles, she says—and i just keep looking around,  an alibi for my many barefoot nights,  scattered when stepped on, nocturnal riddle  use your head she says—but i’m using grandma’s head  where’d you come from she says—and now i’m being interrogated:  “i came from behind” how did you get here “i came barefoot”  barefoot shortcut brashly barefoot brazen trespassing DO NOT ENTER past private land DO NOT LEAVE over the grandma horizon  but i just keep strolling on rid of unfreedom  where is she cramping up  where is she night clearing  i’m going through withdrawal just gotta joyride  barefoot on your back she says—and with that my back crooks  give me my cane she says—and i’m suddenly being helped up  i think this is a mistake she says—and i tear myself away  i’ve got a hunch  i’ve got a hunch. i tear myself away   the great ginkgo at the temple of literature in Seoul looks like we’ve reached the temple of literature.* and look,  the temple’s gate. since that night splitting seconds we’ve woken dazed. blinded. look. seems like they’re trying to unlatch the bolt.  here: threshold. a breeze picks up. here, the temple’s floor. runs deep. look. the temple’s forbidden books.  here: the temple’s lonely. no, wrong: we mean its lone tree, ancient tree. we’re clueless about ancient books. poring through annals. there’s 人, for “person.” no, wrong: it’s ㅅ, for “s.” with pioneers’ spirits. that means “deer.” “bright moon.” here: the temple’s folding screen. seems they’re enthralled to this excerpt.  where are they saying it is? we’re one and the same, no you, no me. natural phenomenon of the selfsame. living feelings of the selfsame. we slide on gloves. here: temple’s precious chest. creak­ing shadow. one shadow hiding, disappearing within another.  can you give me a kleenex? i’d like to cry. here: the temple’s lonely. look. lonesome. no denying. rootless, they say. a ghost, you say. precisely. here: ghosts whispering. pass night’s third watch. pass silence. and pierce the din of yea and nay. gossip teems the dark. rats spread night’s words. exactly, they say. we feel wholly focused on decryption. there’s a ghost. a ghost. emotions frantic. isolation stinging. we wipe its sweat. is it headed faraway? has it come to this temple from afar? look. here: the temple’s ink. correction: temple’s brush. cut a slash:  there’s a ghost. a ghost. something marrowdeep. we’re shut in the mirage of our sameness. one is one, one to one. heads resting on each other’s shoulder like road buddies. look. here: the shadow of one. dawn breaks. history runs deep, they say. standing ready to leave. past the lending library. past Nakseonjae.  look.  we think we’ve reached the temple. here: the temple’s lone tree. the great gingko at the temple of literature in Seoul. monument no fifty-nine. * Translator’s note: The “temple of literature” is the Munmyo (文廟), a historic shrine to Confucius and his students in Seoul on the present grounds of Sungkyunkwan University, formerly part of the royal academy on the same site. While the “mun” in the name technically refers to Confucian textual knowledge more than our modern global category of “literature,” the connection to the word “literature” (munhak) is so much more palpable in Korean that I’ve tried to bring some of that across in English. It’s also worth noting that while “Munmyo” normally goes untranslated from Korean, the site known by the cognate term 文廟 in Hanoi, Vietnam, routinely is called the “Temple of Literature,” which I borrow here.  tour get on, they said  someone told them to pick me up, again  let ’em on again, they said  and now i’m just riding a hearse sitting in an empty seat turning round the cathedral in the blank night rounding the rotary taking a tour, again round Jongmyo REVIVAL MARKET JOB SEEKERS round RESURRECTION HOUSE PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS DRAIN CLEANING and now i’m just spying inferring: GOLD TEETH, SILVERWARE WE PAY TOP PRICES COLLATERAL FREE LOANS WE FLUFF BLANKETS and now a sack is just sitting on my knees full of secrets shadowy creatures through a tunnel someone crying i don’t know you, someone said i know you good to know can stop stoppingturn at ETERNAL LIFE ADMINISTRATIVE ENTERPRISES night passing around the reservoir wrong turn at the tower with the dead clockCAUTION SUDDEN CURVE MASONRY LANDSCAPING SHOESHINE COBBLER get off they said let me off i said someone, me someone, me and now i am grabbing the sack and am squeezed out gagglemarching evergreens along the streets their shadows gaunt suspicions deep within the sack light gleaming, a stoppability day shining, stoppability  a stoppable  and then a stoppable  but it’s unstoppable  unstoppability   on location the line for Jang Huibin was long.  strange sight.  you wench! thy crime. thou. once every time the mechanical sound repeats. calmly, every step. costume flapping. in period footwear, pacing the grass. Jang Huibin became Youn Yuh-jung, became Lee Mi-sook, became Jeon In-hwa.* West Five Tombs.  no script. no genealogy. you wench. left all alone on the tv series. became a stepmother. became Jung Sun-kyung. turned to tatters. out of breath. had to clear her own name. just one suit. couldn’t change into another.  i couldn’t stand it. had to at least roll up her sleeves. long line. my turn faraway. underskirts thin. sweating.  but someone from the preview finished cutting the grass of the tombs. but the tombs were tidy. no tomb for Jang Huibin. just a mound. sweat-soaked. heat’s end, cheoseo, late august. season of scorching sun. season of cooling breeze. complex scent of Jang Huibin, now anonymous.  then the twenty-first century. Kim family.  one suit, one step. not even an attendant. not even a handmaid. Jang Huibin became Kim Hye-soo. became Kim Tae-hee. became grandma. doomed, valiant. but Jang Huibin had to become Jang Huibin. just had to. and the series was a series. was never going to end. the blouse unknotted. had to tie it shut. no way in edgewise for me. didn’t come close. my hands were tied. * Almost all the women named in this poem are actresses who played Joseon-era queen Jang Huibin in different historical television series.   deep inside the house grandma! someone is looking for a grandma.  we press our ear to the wall. to the white wall, to the windwall. hush our breath. the cry moves on. moves on but then approaches. grandma!  under a blanket over the floor’s warm spot the sourdough slowly swells.  white. grandma’s white. breathing. like new life appearing, liver spots fruiting, tears bursting.  have we sickened? been ensorcelled?  we were rude. knew no shame. can’t show our feelings. are trapped in our flesh. do one thing but think the opposite. have to shut up. have to wait. nothing but skin over bone. have to stay sharp. like we can’t stand it. nibbling breadcrumbs with our gums. and rinsing our mouths with freshwater. yum. mmm. have to act like we’re smacking our lips. the wall quakes. grandma! the sourdough’s rising.  grandmother’s house runs deep. deep inside. thin walls. long halls. the echoes resound. grandma!  bones sturdy. lodged in the marrow,  white things. desperate. which eagerly rise and fall.  in illusion whose outside alone remains. we rouged up.  recovery will come. end of a life. atavistic feeling.    humoresque a young lady was playing a harmonica.  familiar song. a dance tune i knew. beneath the cabaret lights. as she played the harmonica— grandma! she recognized me, looked my way.  (grandma. i’ve got Bacchus D and Bacchus F.) * oops . . . le garçon came by. i ordered some Bacchus. for energy, to bring back my complexion.  (D helps the young grow up. F makes the old young. grandma.)  but there’s just one Bacchus. not two, just one. it’s been doubled! the boy offers me Bacchus. parched. before drinking, one. after, one of two.  the young lady kept playing the harmonica.  forbidden song. one i knew. in the gleam of the disco ball. I had to bring back my complexion. maybe i was deluded. drink D and you look happy. drink F and you look like death.  the stage was hot. to the young lady’s harmonica, each side fine: the dance of perpetual check. parched. drink D and you’re the black pawn. drink F and you’re the white. on the brink of an ovation.  one before you drink. then the other once you’re done.  i kept on waiting.  i longed to smell the girl’s harmonica-steeped spittle, and so i kept on waiting, for that dance to end. * Korean energy drinks.   encore we keep dancing the dance of perpetual check.  someone’s watching. keeps watching. beneath the cabaret floodlights. we’re wearing the young lady’s dress shoes. while showing off her lovely lines and curves. we keep dancing perpetual check.  this is the escaping foot. and there it is again. we only know one foot. not two. trapped eternally defending. as if hunting for the lost king’s foot, we ruffle the girl’s skirt. grin her smile. dancing perpetual check.  our feet get tangled. knees ache. feel ancient. don’t even know how to pick teams. but can’t get kicked out, either. to the forbidden tune’s two beats. stop. stop moving. we’re transcending both boos and begging.  someone’s watching. keeps watching. high ceiling. but we are higher. higher than the highest high jumps. we go higher still.  we receive an encore,  the young lady’s encore.    hosanna o grandma. lend us your hands, please.  we reverence the host. think we have fallen ill.  how holy art thou. slashed the sign of the cross.  with our stomachs empty. o bring us to eternal life. permitted to swallow a single piece. how holy art thou. just one more. hosanna. just a little more. i ate too much Ingestion Permissible scarfing wolfing it down was possible but the duodenum, don’toddenum . . .  we’re high on hypostasis. we think we had been turning somersaults.  a hat one swirl aflight. red hat. couldn’t hold back. what’s red is lies. the word wriggled, prodding the stomach two whirls, piercing the lungs with dizzying paradoxes. i wish to confess little lambs writhing three purls in the belly as the duodenum, don’toddenum . . .  on the lives we lost still living—the duodenum, don’toddenum . . .  we clutch our bellies. collapse into grandma’s tale. didn’t know we’d transformed, granny. rawhide stretched over public rib bones. truly. didn’t know with what prickling grace we’d twitch. what a mess. we feel as though we’ve been ensnared then sealed shut.  hosanna. can you please pull me out. we keep waiting for our grandma’s healing hands.  and shake our grandma’s head. and someone, with grandmother’s needle. a mess. keep pricking the fingertips. blood welling. a mess. sticking on a spell slip. a mess: 狼狽, nang and pae, names of wolves writ in red keep thronging, swarming.   grandmas with beautiful foreheads, grandmas grandmas with beautiful foreheads, grandmas facing each other with their beautiful foreheads they loosen their knotted story bindles  unfurling, broadening, the moors of story lie vast  unstoppable nothing not on those moors  would you please squeeze me in  the grandmothers squeezing me in  patching scraps over the missing parts and the grandmothers of distant days to come hiding me, crookbacked little grannies  grandmas never stop to take a break, grandmas  stitching stories grandmothers blanketing the moors with lulla-lullabies  grandmas with beautiful foreheads, grandmas

by Shin Hae-uk

Poetry

Two Poems by Moon Boyoung

LOSS Water Rushes up to my knees Then drains away I’m the only one watching this fountain So if I don’t watch the fountain The fountain is wasted There is a faint light in the water So as not to waste you I watch you As I leave I look back The water pressure may cause injury please do not touch Please do not drink the water in the fountain How’s that For a farewell Or a how are you Walk through the overgrown path Past the walnut tree The tree ripples so Leave it to rot Passing a place you’ve passed before Is a kind of review The fountain is no longer watching me So I am for a while wasted   UNDERSTANDING ADAPTATION It takes 0.4 seconds on average for a human to blink. Isn’t that too fast? Olivia thinks people need to live a little slower. Included in this slow life: staying in the bathroom longer, not exercising, closing and then opening your eyes slowly. When someone blinked during a conversation they died and came back to life in 0.4 second intervals, Olivia felt. Or they transformed into someone else. Which would mean that a person transforms 15,000 times a day. Which is also the reason I can’t ever adapt to being myself. Olivia believes in blinking less often but keeping your eyes shut longer. In the world she envisions, it takes people about three seconds to blink. I believe we need to keep our eyes shut a little longer. I think that’s healthier. In the world she made up, people blink significantly slower as they age. For instance, an eighty-year-old takes ten seconds to blink. It takes a long time to finish a round of chess or janggi because the two old people playing take turns closing their eyes for ten seconds while talking. Of old people who keep their eyes closed too long, people say, “That person is adapting.” Olivia’s daughter who lives on a marblejust asked “Mom, why does grandpa close his eyes for such a long time before he opens them?”“Grandpa is adapting.”“To what?” For Oliviathe ideal person is one who is a little more exhausted than others.

by Moon Bo Young

Poetry

Two Poems by Park Joon

WINTER SOLSTICE Back then.  (when boiling two packets of ramyeon in a small pot could be called ecstasy or thin-eared; when, on the morning of the winter solstice, out of a sense of apology, I said, “I’m not a ghost or anything, but I dislike bean porridge,” or “If the ramyeon broth tastes similarly seasoned, the salinity in our blood must be similar”; or when you said, “You must have a beggar in your stomach,” and with a beggar in the stomach I would feel peckish, cold, dirty, yet soon bloated, and push the table aside and lie there, having so many questions to ask you; then, when my stomach ached, hands went numb, and face turned pale; when the young you would take a needle from the drawer; when you would pat my back, stroke my arm, and pinch my earlobes; when you misread my pulse with your fingers, saying, “Your pulse feels faint, you seem to have severe indigestion,” and the sight of you scratching your head with the needle’s eye felt utterly familiar; when all my ten fingers had been pricked, and the sight of the blood, too precious to waste, would make me want to write characters like ‘beautiful’ (佳) or ‘to shine’ (暎); when, after sending you to Incheon, I lay back in the same spot where we had been, kneading my one hand with the other, closing my eyes tightly, so tightly that I could see dreams, and in the dream, in the fields of a new spring, strands of your long hair lay scattered here and there.)   PLAZA A window letting in just a sliver of light was perfect for us. We met back then when we still believed the simple truth that to die together, you must live together. The half-smoked cigarettes you left tasted sweet, and as the room started to warm, I’d lie with my head on your long legs, simmering like an anchovy in soup. Many a night, I’d drift off after thinking up some line like, “The way for humans to live with birds wasn’t to cage them, but to grow grass and trees in the yard,” nudging it onto your knee, and then fall asleep. Some mornings, we’d sit sorry-faced, facing each other, and talk about what we’d dreamt the previous night, forgetting to fold our blankets, while the white laundry we’d hung on the rooftop, having soaked up the starlight all night, dried yellow. 

by Park Joon

Poetry

Ten Poems by Oh Eun

There “Dad, I’m here!” As I make my way into the charnel house, I greet my father as cheerfully as possible. My father appeared in my dream that night. “Hey Eun, today Dad’s here.” The possible burst, and something slipped out. Toward that far off day, precipitously overflowing cheerfulness.     Those Open, and there they were. For all to see. Like they’d still be there even if I forgot, like I couldn’t forget as long as they were there. But I opened them to forget. Because if they’re there, they come to mind, they show up, they tighten around me. Because I can’t forget.They won’t be there. They might not. How nice would it be if they weren’t? There they were. I can’t forget. Maybe I’ll never forget. How nice would it be if I could only forget? No matter what, there they were.They were outside. Inside, I didn’t know where they were. Inside was at peace, easy going, all alike, so there was no way to know. The inside story isn’t much for going out. It only curls up and congeals.They’ll be there as long as I live. As long as I’ve got a mind to open them and a hand to open them with. Even if they’re gone, I’ll still think of them. They’ll show up in my head. They’ll tighten around my chest. Nothingness will forever knock on former somethingness.Close, and they were gone. Like nothing happened. Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. I felt sorry for closing my eyes. Those things between not seeing and not looking. Those things that thinking of brings up. Opened or closed. Even unopened. Since I couldn’t close. There they are.     That There is somethingIts name escapes me There is somethingWith a nameHere I amNot knowing its name I become engrossedIt is engrossed right alongside me There is someone solving a riddleA riddle no one posed A few days laterThe name comes to meThere I am, feeling the emptiness Something went unnamed then But on the street, in the bus, outside the revolving doorAfter much thought With its nameThere it is     That To talk about it I had to remember it The thing before that thing When it wasn’t that thing yet The thing I thought was that thing The thing that played a decisive role in giving that thing a name The thing closest to that thing The thing forced to exit as soon as that thing entered That thing gets unkempt as it grows and gets further apart from the thing It tries to erase its past up to right then and be remembered as that thing only and fully.         The starlight appeared and the star was gone        The mountain bird sang and the mountain went away        The seawater swelled and the sea dried up         Like a word forgetting its meaning        The moment it’s pronounced     This They said it was just hereRight hereThey were only gone for a minuteAnd it disappearedMaybe the bathroom?Or the utility closet?They only looked away for a secondWhat business did they haveIn the bathroom?What were they utilizingIn the utility closet?It was right hereThisThis very thingThis was right hereHow reassuringHow pleasantThey never even showed this to anyoneBut now this isn’t hereSo this isn’t this anymoreBut they know what this isSo it’s not just some thingCan a lost this still be found?Will that still be this when it gets back?They only looked away for a secondAnd this ceased to be thisThis gave up on being thisThey go back into the bathroomThey search the utility closet up and downBut this never shows back upHow could this do that?What’s to be done about this?Even when it was hereAnd even when it’s gone It was never anything but thisIt could never be anything but this     They Talk like a person Just like a personThat was an insult As beautiful as a person Could almost believe it was a personThat was a mirage Oh, I thought that was a person! Must’ve taken ten years off my lifeThat was sincere Lucky to be a person, andEven luckier not to have been The first bus arrives loaded with yesterday’s exhaustionAnd the last bus departs loaded down with today’s     He Moving day. The first thing he did was count the windows. There were definitely three when he came to see the place, but now that he was moving in, it was down to two. When he confronted the owner, the owner claimed two was all there’d ever been. Was it some sort of illusion? No, more like magic. When he first came to see it, the three windows were what appealed to him. It was an old building, in an inconvenient location, and you had to go up a steep hill to get there, but he’d be happy to sign the contract because it had three windows. He imagined the three windows shining with warm, bountiful sunlight. At that very moment, the sun poured in through all three windows. The thing that appealed to him became the thing that sealed the deal.        On the wall where the third window was, there was now a clock. The owner said the previous renter left it behind. The hands on the clock weren’t moving. They sat unbudging at 11:20. A stopped clock in place of a window! Looking over the contract, the owner said, “It’s a small place, two windows will be plenty.” He’d only wanted such a small place because it had three windows! But if he said it out loud, he might look hung up on the windows. He’d have to put up with a sarcastic comment like, “I’d rather you came in through the door, anyway.” And then there’d be some common-sense retort, “When would I have had the time to get rid of a perfectly good window and put up a wall?” He was this close to becoming the nonsensical tenant hung up on the three windows.        But those three windows were the one good thing about the place. He took a quick look behind the clock in case the window was hiding there. “It’ll work fine if you just change the batteries,” the owner said with a yawn. I’ve got a clock, what I need is a window! There they were, him holding out for a window, the owner insisting he hand over the deposit, both stating their demands without a word. It was still 11:20. He didn’t think he could live in a place with two windows. Just like the hands on the clock, always pointing 11:20, there would only ever be two windows. Putting new batteries in the clock wouldn’t create another window. “It was some guy hung up on the windows. You know how some people are. So temperamental,” the owner would quip to the next renter. There’s homes everywhere, but a home with three windows is only somewhere. Moving day wouldn’t become the day he moved.        But is it even possible for the sun to come in three windows at once? He stood there already unloaded like the moving boxes, looking up at the place. Even outside the window, it was 11:20 over and over.      We Open parenthesisJot down the secretClose parenthesis The secret sealed away potentially And there we wereOutside the parentheses Secretive but not secret Fearing exposureBut wanting recognition The parentheses embrace the insideTurn their backs to the outsideDo anything to meet and form a circle What’s inside the parenthesesStruggles for breath The shadows outside the parenthesesMilling andWriggling andChurning and Seeping into the parentheses in droves WeBecame a secret butWere much too closeTo hide each other     You You were born a proper noun but were often called a pronoun. Those who distanced themselves from y’all, those nice enough to lump you in with we, those who took you under their wing, young friend. They were all proper nouns once too. The more you tried to get rid of the noun within you, the more proper you became.        When you were born, you were almost an adjective. Bright and cute. Handsome and beautiful. Adaptable and outgoing. People said it felt good to see you. People said you gave them energy they didn’t have. Your essence was like water, less placid than rippling.        When you were young, you were close with numerals. You raised your hand to go first. You sprinted down the street at the shout of one, two, three. Whenever you made a new friend, your frequency of pronoun use increased. So many countless yous, and the you that you liked best soon became like your other half.        With your other half, you became a verb. You decided to leave behind being a state or condition and became movement. From here to there, from there to yet another there, which once was yonder. Once you became a verb, there were more imperatives. Sit still. Be careful! Smile more. Don’t cry. Do you love me?        You explored particles, and your other half focused on determiners. You confessed to your other half, “There’s no one else but you.” Your other half took it to mean just one person. It was fine up to that point. But that was it. “Particles don’t attach to determiners,” your other half said, turning away coldly and promptly becoming they.        After that, you started indulging in adverbs. You spent a lot of energy puffing you up and shrinking you down. It was so exhausting and painful, and you were often starving. As your opinion became clearer, you actually grew more faint. Eventually you felt embarrassed.        When you became an exclamation, that’s when you realized.         Oh, this wasn’t the sentence!     Me When I wanted to be aloneI went to the bathroom AloneI felt lonely, thenIn front of othersSomehow embarrassed Fine with being aloneBecameMore comfortable alone The bathroom mirror was wiped cleanIt’s not like it would get smudgedBut it wasn’t easy to look into I looked at the mirror and smiledNo one was watching, but even stillThe corners of my lips wouldn’t rise Like something I shouldn’t have seenLike something hard to watch I burst out laughingLike a story you shouldn’t laugh atLike a smile turning into a silly faceLike the most famous comedianIn a funny world AloneIn the bathroom All by myself, and stillIt was an effort for me to smile    Translated by Seth Chandler       

by Oh Eun