Yoon Yong is drunk again.
Drinking to forget again (nearly home time)
…3 bottles of Soju later & staggering thoughtfully
through tight gullies | her stomach
packed full of pig | mouth reeking of garlic
noxious enough to stun a jindo—the stars like pheasant tracks
—if you count all the stars is that how old the universe is?
like counting tree rings to know the age of a tree.
What bollocks I think up sometimes!
The old houses shake under the wind’s saline weight |
a commotion of thin voices she can hear inside
as well as the clatter of dishes
—the noise of domesticity
reminding her to give her daughter a call.
There is no answer—she is probably sleeping.
She wants to punch the air
but realizes how juvenile & cliché it is |
she wants to box the moon | debate
with wind | dress in shadow drunken
on gloom to stir the poetic | rather
than parrot a language I hate.
“Rest | tomorrow is a big | new day…”
