her father took in, plus all his friends & neighbors (still alive)
arrive until his house swells, from eight to twelve to fifty.
His lovely wife dies of stress, claustrophobia, war, & poverty.
Hannah’s mother runs from orphanhood, from a colonized country,
to escape chaos, grief, & molotov cocktails, to create
a new life, free of conflict, vicious spirals, struggles, & strife.
It goes deep, kid. She could be running
from the violence her father carried from that war too, into
his body, into his home, buried
rage from leaving a country stolen &
conquered & raped & pillaged by
the Japanese and then Americans, fake friends
who took & took & used the same old divide
& conquer formula to occupy one half
of their divided country for more than half a century. What pride
can one truly carry when one is country — less?
All these Korean Americans, cut in half, divided inside, then hyphened —!
surviving, trying to thrive in the land of the colonizer ~ sigh ~
Bob Marley say, You’re running & you’re running
& you’re running away, but you can’t run away from yourself…
She’s running from a broken home,
running from her broken home-land,
her cold orphan mother & her divided mother ~ land,
cut into two sides by Russia and Amerikkka, and
she’s running into the arms of the first man-child
who’s ever felt like Home,
who makes her soul feel less alone,
good to smell & warm to hold.
She’s running from her parents, who are mute,
who suffered so much they refuse to speak about Why ~
(but that simply creates another Divide
that I bridge for You, dear Reader, but imagine
how lost! how empty she feels inside with no stories, maps, mirrors,
or songs to guide her in this new world).
She Inherited a rage that lives
like a bomb in her body —
she inherited da stones of Han, and is spending her life unloading them
from her bowl, to become Light enough to take flight and disappear.
Rice Grains (Halmoni)
Aigu, gunyun bah. She’s a disgrace —
a shame to the whole Shin family.
Look at her, kissing that black boy,
black as burnt rice. Look!
I want to scratch out my mound grave,
cross ocean, slap her cheek,
make her kneel on a bed of rice grains.
Whip her calves with a pine switch
until she bleeds bloodseeds.
Daughter of my firstborn son, born
on foreign land, can’t even hold
my words in her mouth without spilling
them like wellwater…
she needs a living halmoni to slap her sane,
make her respect her family name.
7th Period (Hannah)
I wait like a tiger lily in an overrun
garden, trying hard to be hidden
yet dazzling, fixing my burnt, frayed
hair. Late, he saunters over,
sharp as a grass-blade. When I lean
against him, a stiff bulge in his Polo
jeans turns me dew-moist. I learn
too late it’s not his heat, but a silver .380
he uses to kill stop signs with a hunter’s
flair in weeded corners of Queens. A peek
of silver-blue, he puts my hand there.
Hard. My girls stare. God, I long
to glint. Cock the trigger,
game for anything.
Private Dancer
The door’s locked. Put it on, she dares,
flings her Guess denim-lycra dress
at his feet. He sucks his teeth, nah. She caresses
his earlobe. Please. He huffs…straps off buckles. She
stares as he struts from dresser to bed with a bony hip-jut,
arm extended like a thin brushstroke of tree.
He bats foxy lashes to throw shadows over his cheek-
bones, puckers lips, runs his rough
palms over her décolletage, then strips
further. To her cherry-red negligee. Totters in fake heels,
flings an invisible boa up at the ceiling. She
laughs, imagines feathers swan-diving past her eyes as he
skips over now. Done with fantasy, he kneels
beside her. Hard. Naked. On his bony knees.
One Tree
Hannah wants to take Angel into dark woods,
away from his bleak block with its one thin
tree — god, one tree! Sick
smell of needles and burnt, cooked crack.
If she could, she’d hike him up the Catskill trails
her mother led her through as a girl,
so he, too, can smell sweet loam,
let his feet find path through stone,
leaf, root, each step Godsure…
to stretch his wingspan wider,
beyond the wire mesh of Hart Street’s
metal aviary ~ Hannah daydreams
lounging on a milk crate, as Angel
hustles coke under the oak’s weak shade.
Tattoo
Ay, who could not adore such a soft-spoken sweetie?
Left shoulder blade tattooed with a jester,
mouth full of hilarious smut — Hey, let’s take a shower, he entreats,
my tongue’ll be the sponge. A gum-snapping
goddess of Lust winks over Angel’s bed, agreeing,
Love is the funniest! She lures
the two to locked bedrooms. Alas ~ in a few, he cheats.
So, she cheats, and they brawl, and Angel gets locked up.
Hannah works late shifts to pay his Rikers bail.
Far away she hears her mother’s voice,
forcing her awake — You can’t save a lost boy —
her breath sounds hot & stern.
But young lovers scar hard and take
each other’s hearts for ransom. They appear
so cool from afar…up close, their small hands shake.
Graduation
South of campus, Angel strays
behind a mimosa tree, blurred
like a sepia photo, a secret.
Hannah bobs in a sea of royal-blue
caps & gowns. Angel frowns
down at his two-dollar bodega-rose.
Everyone’s armed with exotic bouquets —
calla lily, iris, tulip. Angel
breaks a thorn off his prickly stem.
Hannah’s handed her diploma onstage —
his throat stirs. She smiles,
hugs an oldwhitelady tight,
and snaps pictures with her Kin,
miles away from him.
Jones Beach
They trail behind his cousins on the shore, till Chino
becomes one black speck, Jessie, another. Stripping sandals for fun,
they run barefoot into ice-blue, see-through, sailboat
water, no seaweed, dirty needles like Orchard Beach
or Beach Ninety-eighth, Latin Kings with black-gold-black
necklaces glinting on collarbones like silent threats to Nietas.
None of that old danger — just water, up to their chests.
They reach a point where their toes don’t touch the sand.
Dip in and out of salt, their breath ragged now.
The undertow yanks their thighs with her cold hand,
grips them down, down, she panics, to death —
Hannah gasps. Sinks. Angel grips her neck —
throws her up and forward — Swim!
Onshore, they choke up liquid ropes of ocean.
Angel. Angel.
You saved me — she admits.
Eden (Hannah)
with you i’m not a girl
with small duties file
cuticles carry groceries
with you i unfurl
like Eve i can kill or heal
with my mouth and hands
turn a bed into a lightning-
filled tent steal
deep inside your
skin bloom stars
inside till you smell
like me
i burn like you kin
to our blood’s
desire to flee from
Eden
Virginity
He ooo-oohs her in DeKalb’s train
station, takes her hand, lugs her JanSport bag
all the way to Hart Street in Timberlands, do-rag
tight round his forehead. Her hair, a horse’s mane
dolled with spit curls just for him. She lies
to her mother, says she’ll be praying at a Korean church
retreat. Instead, she kneels before Angel for her First
Time in a white peekaboo nightie.
His mother, Alma, lays in the sickroom next door.
Blue light falls over their skin in strips.
He kisses all ten of her chipped toes. Her hip bones.
The wooden floor begins to creak. She winces.
Clenches her fists into yellow rosebuds, stuffs her mouth with a pillow,
so his mother, next room over, can sleep.
Mute, she takes her first lover.
It has to be this way, no other.
Summer Break
Grains of light sift over Wyckoff
Avenue, dusting strollers shoved
by thick-hipped mamis with slick, gelled hair.
Tattered triangular flags blow and click
like sharp teeth above all heads.
Angel struts, clasping Hannah’s fingers.
A cool wind ripples his undershirt,
dares to lift her skirt. Young fools with easy
grins, they stroll loose-hipped down Hart
Street, say wassup to boys ribboning D’s Phat Beatz, Sal’s Pizzeria.
Young street king and queen; everyone knows
his name: Pssst…mira Angel y la China,
they hiss. But the two own the block —
walk straight into a hot wind.
I slept but my heart was awake.
Listen! My lover is knocking.
~ Song of Songs
II.
Verano
Summer
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring,
lives churned & cut like ’copter blades whirring
across a bleak Bushwick sky — Hannah’s disowned,
left with only Angel’s arms for a home —
Rafi snores between them in the cramped twin bed,
they’re more than lovers now; they’re surrogate parents.
Deep in Bushwick, they decide to rent a small one-bedroom,
cook pots of arroz con pollo together and soon,
warmth spills into their lives like a late noon sun,
but the beauty dries out almost as soon as it’s begun,
cuz Angel’s fam crashes at their crib, makes a mess of it,
Hannah throws clothes, plates, hour-long bitching fits —
they inherit the sins and vices of their folks, no heat,
their hearts & apartment grow cold —
they cut each other to bone / no more tenderness to bleed —
like a hot wind, she scorches his earth and leaves —
Split
I’m leaving to live with Angel, Hannah says un-
der her breath. Her father sits with fists
clenched on the kitchen counter. He twists
his mouth into a sad grin. Her mother waits,
gripping doorway. She prays
her husband won’t kill her daughter, grab wrists,
bend them into mercy, bash his fist
into her baby’s baby skin. He takes
a whisk from his blue inhaler. Air is hot, un-
bearable, thick…If you…disown me, apa, I…I
understand. But I can’t…stop…
loving this man. Hannah weeps. Presses
her hand on her apa’s knee. He drops
his head. Sobs. Why…why me?
Moving
She packs her dresses while her dad’s
at work. Slams CD cases till they crack, white lightning down Mary’s face.
Doesn’t stand & look at white
bedroom walls, no, it’s all done in a hot rush,
fire burning her Nikes
to get the hell out. Fuck this house,
she seethes. House of broken plates,
torn hair, han, misery.
She shoves handfuls of socks, quar-
ters, thongs into her JanSport,
watches the clock, calls Four Twos,
looks back out at the quaint,
two-story wooden houses,
bird-filled, tree-lined streets.
No one sees her leave.
Grace & Grief
(Halmoni)
There she goes.
Another split.
Split nara, split family.
Is our fate a legacy of
grief? A history of han
for eternity?
My ancestral tree
shredded like
rice paper
in a hard immigrant wind. Aigu.
Wild girls —
what mother-pain!
She’s my penance — she’s
me, fifty years later, still hardheaded.
Stunning,
headed straight for
tragedy she thinks is Love
or Destiny.
But to spit her
into the city-jungle,
among ghosts, demons,
thieves? No place for a
jashikeh. Aiyu. Look how
my son and his wife salt
& smoke in separate
rooms. Tombs. God, what
is this world?
Are we all guaranteed moments of grace
as well as grief? Little girl-fool, I bless you
tonight with a sorrowless
sleep,
but tomorrow —
and beyond, Hannah-ya
what you sow,
you reap.
Knickerbocker
Hannah’s first day in Bushwick:
sunstars wink on car roofs like gardenias.
Wind flaps tabletops.
Out every open window, Jerry Rivera croons.
Hannah sits outside at Sal’s pizzeria.
Her skin and the brick, warmed red.
She watches two Latin Kings flex.
It’s a new town, new smells. Ado
bo, saltlust.
She’s see-through, an outline waiting to be colored in.
Please. One moment a day —
en paz — a light, cool wind.
Today, no evil.
Even El Jefe gums a tune
as he rattles down Knickerbocker Avenue.
Home?
Funny. Here, in Maria’s cramped bedroom
with its bare bulb & peeling walls, a rat
scuttling by lil’ Juanito’s minibike, three fat kids
plumped underneath her like pillows,
Maria stretched out like a queen in short-shorts
popping seedless green grapes into every
kid’s open mouth, Tito’s laughter,
window open to car screeches,
slaps of Bereco’s & Angel’s domino tiles,
clink of distant beers, an iron bar
in Hannah’s stiff spine melts…
she softens here, is almost home here,
nestled in chaos,
a fawn hidden in high grass.
Flock
One reason she loves living in Brooklyn
is everyone’s kids: Alejandro, Joey, Sofia, Kayla, and lil’ Juanito
flock to her like tough, cute, baby gray-
gold ducklings. Angie’s youngest one is a lost starling
adopted by the young and scrabble-beaked.
They sing her Aaliyah songs, clamber over her shy frame,
pluck tufts of fluff from a futon couch to decorate
her hair with a tiara of wool and feathers.
Hannah does her homework while da other girls sniff & smoke,
watch old Tom & Jerry reruns & new Disney classics together,
whirl kids like tiny planets over the living room.
With small hands they drag her into bunk beds,
make blanket forts & play, far from the hard-eyed titas in the kitchen.
She feels blessed when Alejandro’s tiny feet slap like webs over linoleum. Titi!!
He stretches baby arms towards her neck. She flies him up to kiss his brown ringlets.
Disco
Angel, you are hilarious,
she giggles, spellbound, laying
Angel & Hannah Page 3
