Aegukga

                                     i. 
How else to describe this but immortal? 
Forget the war that birthed you and 
find redemption in a translation that 
matters. Here are the paper crane wings 
you asked for, the violent men and their 
fumbling fingers on bruised marrows of 
fruit. Here, you remember matda— 
it means to be correct. It also means 
to be hit. 

                                                           ii. 
                           Home has an echo, and it bleeds guilt. 
                           Halmeoni never knew how to 
                           pronounce endorphin, but you were 
                           happy enough to unfurl the saekjongi 
                           under her eyes. A hundred days leak 
                           into a year. And now I love you more 
                           because I don’t remember you. Carve 
                           eleven until you cave in. And this winter 
                           was beautiful because it snowed, and 
                           you were purple and you were pining. 
                           Here, you remember maleuda—to wither. 
                           To thin. 
                                                                                                      
                                                          iii. 
                                                    A love letter to your summer of fools. 
                                                                                                                To your cultish 
                                                                             dreams, to your 
                                                                                                 first pink cheeks, to your 
                                                                                  angel in 
                                                                                                   green. A kiss goodbye to 
                                                                                   grief. 
                                                                                                              Because you
                                                                                                        didn’t leave too late. 
                                                                              Remember the 
                                                                                                   shrill song of the maemi. 
                                                                                        The 
                                                                                                   language of your loyalty, 
                                                                                     deathless 
                                                                                                        like a dog’s. Here, you 
                                          forget sagua—bite the apple. Swallow the apology.