Archive for January 2nd, 2022

Sunday, 2 January 2022

Related Matters by Emily Jungmin Yoon

I look at the ocean like it’s goodbye.
Somewhere, it is touching a land laying prey to fire.
My grieving mother brings the forest inside, a green excess.
When she repots the trees, it is not unlike changing diapers.
But she no longer tends to the small abject frames of the dying.
These days, everything feels like the end.
A few days ago, a typhoon shaved glass off buildings.
A woman in her sixties bled to death after it cut
the window into her arms. The name of the wind, Maysak,
means teak tree in Khmer, I learn. The timber
retains its aromatic fragrance to a great age, I learn. I am always
learning. What is it that I want
to know? There is nowhere in this world
that I want to live. I look at your face
like it’s goodbye. There is nowhere to go.
I shut my window because what else
can I do. Tomorrow’s typhoon is called Haishen,
meaning sea god in Mandarin. I confess
I want to live. Nowhere, but still, with great desperation, I want.
What is it that you want?
Tell me, is your face the same as mine?
Tell me, do we see the same things?
Tell me we are the same eyes
burning through the night.


Date: 2021

By: Emily Jungmin Yoon (1992- )