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Jae Petite goutte d'eau your great uncle calls you because you are a drop in the middle of the vast field of your parents' bed, drop of water that harbors all colors, where light quivers and expands. When your black eyes crinkle at the edges you are an emperor decreeing laughter. With tiny fingers you topple the bright nesting cups: the grandmother who disappeared one night, slipping away through a back alley in Seoul, the grandfather who thought he lost only a war and his years, and your mother who was abandoned, who wept because she was like no one in this world. Carefully you fit them back together, you wave your hands with glee. Little acorn who carries the long shadows of trees, petite goutte d'eau, mirror in which your mother comes home. |
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Issue #29, October, 2002 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.