“dear eomma”
a. denial
there are walnut trees toppling sidewalks, pointing ways past
the bell-ringing church & the drain pipes & the scores of rats.
i pass them every day & every day since that september
i am haunted by you.
b. depression
when i was walking earlier today i imagined my
half-sister as an incandescently pale, oval sort of moon,
but knew, deep down, how i am yellow, mother, &
damaged, just like you.
sister said that we are searching, always, & only for you,
but i’ve loved only one type of man & every woman because
i am reaching out to find
myself, not you.
c. anger
on second thought, don’t
say a word, eomma. your words, like so
many pearls, aren’t nearly enough.
d. bargaining
tomorrow i’ll step through the walnut-rot—inky spots
marking where they fell & then dropped. but
what if i never find the right words to write you, eomma?
i am careening, somewhere between sidestepping & flight,
thinking, surely, “someday, but not today,
i’ll put you to rest.”
e. anger
they called me a gook all my life because of you.
i didn’t think about what that meant at the time, but
now i think about it every single day.
was i cultured, eomma, or purposefully made? & how
could you have made me any differently?
f. acceptance
homeland, to me, is walking carefully under these
deep, stained walnut trees, edging
closely, tensely, safely,
near, far, further into this double-edged life, wondering
when?
g. reconstruction
as i walk, i am waiting for the walnuts to drop &
knock me one way or the other, as i am
balancing between worlds,
but they don’t. & the longer i walk the more i realize
they never will
.
three years have passed like slanted sidewalks & i
thought i’d know where to begin, how to
write you by now but i still can’t say
your name
in my head, eomma, because it
keeps coming up as mine