in which war is always invading
die as something, maybe. like a dog. why won’t i have that?
because the stove doesn’t have wrinkles, and a thing like that
won’t get far. i’m not at home anymore but forget me for a
minute. all i remember is lash, burn, trench. unsightly, unseeing.
eyes eyes eyes. i await your order. what’s up with me? it’s like i
believe it’ll back off if i run, trim the talking eyelids. it burns.
i finish my circles and then return to the cycle. i exhale the
sunlight. tear it into tiny chunks and swallow. inhale the boiling
trench. please god i’m sick and i don’t trust sorry. was that
it god? should it? i gotta make a life. i want light, i want
the day. god is a watchdog. i watch the dark. two sore breaths.
it walls me in. i hate the stove. the ticking and the burst
of fire, like it’s calling me. i wonder if god has a dog too.
amazon
the door dings. slipped beneath is a plastic
package. a thin layer of film stretches around fabric,
sealed at the edges as if pressed with an iron.
you will press the cloth inside with an iron,
heat hissing as it seeps inside stitches. the fabric
sighs, wilts, and sucuumbs at last. it melds with
your fingers, molting as if you are shedding flesh.
the neck of the shirt swallows you, fabric rippling
around your torso as you move. and you move,
because you need the iron now. you need to iron
your shirt-skin. you hold the iron in your hand,
smoke wheezing into your eyes, and you click-
click-click and wait, coughing, until you hear
the door ding again. and slipped beneath it is a
plastic package. a handprint seared into the iron.
alternatively, the iron imprinted into your hand.
you tear the plastic away like an animal might
to a carcass. the door dings and dings and dings.
you are starving.
train ride
Shut up, the woman says. her cheeks are berry flushed. i can imagine
her manicured fingers plucking out the seeds in her pores. Shut up shut up shut up.
the man cradles his head like it is a fragile thing, constantly slipping from his
slick grip. I, he tries. No, he begins. his nails curl around an armrest. then,
Shut up! he flushes berry red. i straighten my magazine page with a flap. the two
glance at me, anywhere but each other. mom takes the paper from me. I can’t
believe they’re being so loud on a train, she complains. quietly, at least. Mom, shut up,
i whisper. They’ll hear you. mom shrugs, rolls the magazine away and turns
to the couple. It’s a public space, mom says, not so quiet this time, and the woman
blushes even darker, because she is always the picture of dignity and she has
never been heartbroken before. the man’s nails dig into his scalp, as if its on the verge
of breaking. he is terribly good at breaking things, perhaps. i avert my eyes. it’s like
watching a train wreck. metal sparking like fireworks and butterflies. mom doesn’t
look away. the man’s watch is slow, he hasn’t had time to replace it, probably.
he’s been sick with a cold for a week and he’s too tired of chicken soup to
keep it down. he needs tylenol and ice. the woman sighs. the train’s exhaust fumes
sigh. mom grabs my hand and leads me to the doors, slinging a backpack over
her shoulder. And don’t tell me to shut up, she says, the couple’s eyes
watching our backs as we slip outside.
Haeun (Regina) Kim is a student writer from Seoul, South Korea. An alumna of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship, the Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference, and the Sunhouse Summer Writing Mentorship, she has been recognized by Bennington College, the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers, River of Words, and more. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, Stone Soup, and The Galway Review, among others. An editor at Polyphony Lit, she serves as the founder of MISO-JIEUM. When not writing, she can be found painting in an art studio or struggling through amateur ballet.