The Boon
Haesong Kwon
My theory is, what gave birth to the rage
came in the sun-dried carp delivered in boxes.
When the fish was gone, we glanced up
the ceiling after each gulp and that kept us light.
Stillness was our rings and ribbons, our
once formal feelings, the keepsakes.
We tucked the stillness in like they were fruit
smells from our day’s end. Saying we could live
by the sea but not near the hills kept us light.
Chary of flavors, a hawk in a bower,
I was for yams.