what the tide brings me

three sprays of lavender & the copper coin i gamble into the
air. to be, or not to be. last night i dreamt the moon was aflame
again & monstrous with sunset until it threw itself to the foxes.
next year’s eclipse finds me running, a steel-jawed trap around
my feet. the first & most important lesson my father teaches
me is how to uproot myself; i’m standing at the edge of the pier
& he is the one who tells me to let go of the sea. the first &
most important lesson i learn is to run while the moon chases
the steel at my feet, the bullet in my spine. an act, an absence.
& every coin i flip lands on tails. every horizon still leaves me
aching, making a wound of myself again. i relive the fading
newness of the moon like my mother traces the crease of my
palms—she tells me my lifeline is barely visible & i take it to
mean that death has half a claim on me already. perhaps the
first & only thing my mother teaches me is how to let go of
things more important than the sea. & every coin i flip lands
on tails; why gamble when the alternative is to lose? i am not
asking for a revolution, only a city where i am loved.


Eunice Kim is a Korean-American writer living in Seoul. She has poetry published or forthcoming in Inkstay, Rose Quartz Magazine, and dear Scheherazade. You can find more of her work at ivyburied on social media. 

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