the first rain

June rain draws a cross on the glass.  
Alcohol evaporates.  
If I come back to you,  
I can write. My time in China  
is an unending funeral.  
Nobody cried. The notebook is wet. 

I read an interview  
with a Taiwanese porn actress 
who dreams of becoming an object.  
Now, by offering the whole of her body 
and being assigned to different roles,  
she thinks she’s closer to it.    

Lately, I started to believe 
the essential things about the self
lie in the exterior. That would explain  
this feeling of searching. 
Thin fabrics wrapping around my skin.   

In many dreams I had in May,  
I was looking for a classroom.  
Something great was going to be born  
in an English lecture hall. 
I was in haste, at last ending up in a canteen  
with seesaws and ice-cream.    

I share the actress’s belief.   

I have told you before  
I hate my job as translator.  
All things should be passed on in their original form.  

But with this poet  
who caught fire in a burning nightgown,  
I wish to speak like her. 

(6/22/22, for Yongyu)