Whispers

Whispers chirp on the 
windowsill, gazing at me— 
unbrushed hair, morning breath. 

Two kids with striped tees 
whisper at the cemented 
debris, prayers I 

suppose? The clouds, too, 
whisper at one another,
pinching cotton skin. 

Now I whisper to
the mirror, Have a nice day.
You should feel the joy.

Just a Little Reminder
(inspired by This is Just To Say by William Carlos Williams)

I ate the leftover slice of apple pie
that you probably saved for your hungry morning stomach 
but I couldn’t help my oblivious fingertips
from reaching the subtle scent of cinnamon. 

I know you would have dreamed about it
in your sleep–the taste of mother’s apchima,
the taste of mother’s locks of charcoal hair, 
but I wanted to feel them, too. 

I will bake another plate of apple pie for you, 
for you have me, mother, and everyone you can hug
so please forgive me for having 
your last slice of apple pie.

To My Future Daughter 

The world is yours. Even though
you couldn’t solve 2+3
in front of your crush, even though you stained
your favourite white shirt 
with ketchup droplets, everyone
will love you even more for it. Even 
your own mother. If you happen to have 
a little brother, perhaps even
a spark of a little sister, let them
comb your Barbie’s hair, even if they do
smear fingerprints across her sheen. If
you have no siblings at all, comb her hair 
with your best friends. Nothing could hurt 
more than the turned backs and giggles, other girls
shielding their Barbie’s from you. Never 
be that girl, Daughter. Your lips 
possess the magic of speech—of sharing
and delivering your flower beds and fireworks, even
doves circling on top of you, shaping a halo. Don’t worry, your mother 
will help you knock on others’ doors if you need help.
(Your mother had trouble, too.)

Yukyung Katie Kim is a tenth-grade student at Deerfield Academy in Deerfield, Massachusetts. A passionate visual artist and writer, she has a keen interest in poetry and fantastical imagery. In her free time, Yukyung enjoys playing the oboe.