Our father is a woodcutter driven to drink, and when he drinks he likes to talk.
The boy did not know when he ate the seeds that out from his belly button would grow a vine. He decided to show his mother who was busy with his winged sister.
In Ancient Greece, it was women’s responsibility to grieve. They lead the prothesis, chanting funeral dirges and pulling at their hair.
Once, night, unchallenged, extended its dark grace
across the sky. To the credit of the town, the stars
at night had been enough, though sometimes
the townspeople went about bumping their heads
I didn’t know that girl was in my belly until the heartburn set in, acid foaming into my esophagus and escaping in a huff of steam wafting silver moonward.
Each birth came too early, the samurai’s daughter producing a peach pit with the face of a crying boy or girl.
she pickes mye foote up by the heele
dragges hir fingre padde
along myn arche
& seith unto me
thow hath a noblewoman’s foote
A poplar tree shakes its wet hair
in front of a mental hospital in Ch’ŏngyangni
Maybe the night wind is blowing—
It’s unsettling to meet people who don’t eat apples.