Skip to main content
Poets.org

mobileMenu

  • Poems
  • Poets
  • Poem-a-Day
  • National Poetry Month
  • Materials for Teachers
  • Academy of American Poets
  • American Poets Magazine

Main navigation

  • Poets.org
  • Academy of American Poets
  • National Poetry Month
  • American Poets Magazine

User account menu

  • Log in
  • Membership
  • Donate
Donate
Donate
Poets.org

2022 Charles and Fanny Fay Wood Poetry Prize

Page submenu block

  • find poems
  • find poets
  • poem-a-day
  • library (texts, books & more)
  • materials for teachers
  • poetry near you

Stinky Feet, Yellow Teeth

by Onyew Kim

 

Let’s play a game, my mother used to say. Hold on to my arm while I spin around until you fly off. The world seemed so splendid in her orbit. My tiny arms clinging tight as she spun faster and faster, my world growing larger. I remember my mother in fragments. A hymn slipping from her lips reaching me from somewhere beyond the tall dark hallway, beckoning my little legs to stomp towards the sound into our bathroom. Strands of black hair, chipped peach-colored toenails against the blue tile floor, maybe her left breast, her hands as she ignites the flame over the stove. The oil makes a static sound as the tops of the scallion pancake bubble, edges curl so crisp I can already feel the crunch between my teeth. She wants me to make a sound. A grunt, a sigh, an exclamation, or mmmm. She wants to know that  it is good, always. And it is. I remember being  small in her arms, warmth like the fire before it burns  born where our bodies touch. Her yellow teeth and her  bottom lip heavy, when she smiles. Eyes as soft as the excess skin on the backs of her arms. When she sleeps,  she becomes a mystery I can’t look away from, watching her chest rise and fall, mouth open as if she’s about to speak. Upon waking her, she grabs my foot in one hand and brings it to her nose to make a face, conjuring my laugh so she can  laugh with me. My laughter is shrill from the throat, but  she laughs deeply from her stomach, quietly somehow. I remember asking her once, mom, mom, mom, are you a girl or are you a woman? Girl she says, eyes lit, fixed on mine. The water runs over the dishes and I see her.  Girl. Girl. Girl. Girl. Girl. Girl. like bells ringing in the distance with no intention to stop

 

back to University & College Poetry Prizes

Newsletter Sign Up

Support Us

  • Become a Member
  • Donate Now
  • Get Involved
  • Make a Bequest
  • Advertise with Us
  • Poets Shop

Follow Us

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Tumblr
  • SoundCloud
  • YouTube
  • Instagram
  • Pinterest

Footer

  • poets.org

    • Find Poems
    • Find Poets
    • Poetry Near You
    • Jobs for Poets
    • Read Stanza
    • Privacy Policy
    • Press Center
    • Advertise

  • academy of american poets

    • About Us
    • Programs
    • Prizes
    • First Book Award
    • James Laughlin Award
    • Ambroggio Prize
    • Chancellors
    • Staff

  • national poetry month

    • Poetry & the Creative Mind
    • Dear Poet Project
    • Poster
    • 30 Ways to Celebrate
    • Sponsorship

  • american poets

    • Books Noted
    • Essays
    • Advertise
© Academy of American Poets, 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038
poets .org