Wonderseed
Annie (Chae Eun) Kim
Golden Shovel from “Meditation at Lagunitas” by Robert Hass
The monsoon whispers, filling my ear with rain. There
is something spectacular about whispering. Longing was
all I thought about in my last life. In its absence, desire is a
ferocious force. In my last life, I was a tall woman
shaped like blackberry. I took great pleasure in hurt. I
burned horseshoe shaped memory into soft skin. I made
love with shifting bodies under heavy clouds. Love
doesn’t sound right. Wonder, maybe. Love is afraid to
settle in my womb. My hair sticks to my neck and
hardens in spirals. My hands tremble when I speak. Instead I
encounter wonder in warm places. Yesterday, I remembered
my last last last life. I raised chickens. I remembered how
cruel it was to make a living. I remembered holding
Walnut’s legs with my left hand, her
neck in the other—spinal cord severing. She made a small,
sad sound. My wife laughed at me, how my shoulders
shook when I wept. In my last last life, I found hope in
the strangest places. An old man kissed my
hand when I gave him my extra loaf of bread. His hands
shook but his eyes shone bright with whispers. Sometimes
I wish I were sand-bright, desert-dry. Sometimes I wish I
were dew-dropped fir trees. In my last last last last life, I felt
loss unravel. I feel it still. I learned that the body is a
concentrated place of tenderness where violent
dreams take root. The rain continues. A wonder
of perseverance. The monsoon follows me, at
my most desperate times it washes away her
scent, his hands, their presence.
Memory feels like
the sentence continuing, a
declaration of thirst.
I’m thirsty for
salt,
for
the lips of my
childhood
I wish the river
would rinse me with
its
island
willows.
I embrace the silly
dancing, the music
curling from
the
pleasure
boat.
My muddy
skirt places
fossils in my wake. Where
was it that I buried Walnut’s beak? Where we
hid the sourdough yeast? Where we caught
the
little
orange-silver
fish
called
pumpkinseed?