Читать книгу Collage of Seoul - Jae Newman - Страница 17

There is no want in me but for you:

drag a honeycomb through my hair,

deaden all thoughts of dismantling

this stinger in my spine. Mother,

they bleached you into obscurity. Infants

don’t fly, and so, you painted stripes on me,

made me a Korean bee with a quiet stinger

to help me collide with the Yellow Sea.

When I am torn up about who I am,

I take comfort where comfort stings,

sit alone at sunset watching a black sky

swallow tiny silver planes, but nothing

can keep me from swarming the aviary,

a Buddhist bumblebee in the dead of February.