THE WORLD IS NOT AN ALABASTER BATHTUB

you saw i was with color      that everything darkened me up & made me abominable

you saw the dead skin rub black off of me like off the bottom of an eraser

my black blood marks      shedding flesh

sloughing in a black washbasin—

the streaked scabs over my first skin

perhaps       was it my dad who made me marked—

the foreigner i looked like kneeling on her tiles until knees swelled

made to face forward & hear my mom tell me

“dirty       dirty       you       oh my god       black so dirty”

from once a week to two scrubs everyday

did i have harabeoji spin around in his mound

did i have harabeoji disavow his blood

maybe i did by being       by having be       what was made flesh       already

your appa’s voice       his wishes       echoes from the tumulus

the inflections of your family

tearing away with brillo mitts

SHE      THE MIDDLE DAUGHTER

stutters in a snow blaze       the wind whipping her tray

her in a patchwork dress       sleeves are pulled down

against the coldness       she needs to sell more from lotte

coal warm in her nose       layered barely like hay roofs

she stands white & yellow legs       in front of the crate on mud

she       the middle daughter

she stands in a cloud shadowed village      at the restaurant she works

peddles sticks of american gum       used matchbooks       cigarettes

her brother’s books to be bought as candles of hope

she turns almond eyes from the numbing

midwinters       to her father’s hand slapping       over & over

when the winds are lashing       she squats for an evacuation

into her corner in the wet alley       her hands frost bites

inside a storm

GEOMDUNG-I; OR HOW TO SAY NIGGER IN KOREAN

black soldier knew what hate he saw & he still lay down

the korean woman       their son learns day after day to wash

the spit from the eyes      but when he does       doesn’t he

see the mother whose skin laughed at his

she spoke those days—gave nothing—

see your arms & legs are healed       go out & play nice

on most days       he wished for a mother

he could trust with a colored boy’s hand

MOTHER'S FIND

she is in the middle of a field  & is away

from family that wouldn’t have helped anyhow       muddy

she crawls against all odds       then as she thought

“i can find us a blessing”       she brushes among the sweet grass

“this is going to get better       i’ll get muddy for your blessing

i’m here by hope”       then as only god

could’ve found her—a four-leaf blessing in the field—

faith—sealed pressed into her bible

between the pages       once my dad showed me the inside

of an album       son       this clover

is how she had enough prayer

to have you find at least one blessing from korea