Respite
By Elane Kim
It’s New Year’s.
It’s New Year’s & the stars are white-hot & all your favorite dishes
are flushed warm on the island: tteokguk for fortune, knife-cut noodles
for longevity, persimmon pudding & a tin can of sardines.
The nectarines are in season in our backyard & the pigeons
are painting their pale bodies with rain. The man in the powdered apron
still feeds them on the porch of his square little store, the way you said
was too generous. Too much for such small bodies to be eclipsed
by hunger. We leave flowers by your pillow, the lakeside whirring
with cicadas. We chose a round pound cake from the supermarket
last week, the anniversary of your funeral. I confuse my birthday
with the day you died. Are you listening? I am still making a list
of places for us all to visit: the static image of your youth,
the last lake in which you loved. There should have been
more distractions. There are still so many sardines
left in their cans, floating belly-up in brine. Seabirds still float
against the red bridge, arrogant, flashing their bellies
toward the sky. I think you would have liked to feed them.
I think you would have been generous,
despite.
