Written by Emily Comstock ETA’08-09
When I ask my coworker if Koreans see
a man in the moon,
he says no, they see a rabbit
grinding a millstone.
I squint, but it’s still
a face to me.
During dinner
my principal teases that I
ate too much,
that my face is
round like bread
not thin like rice.
A teacher kindly defends me,
says my haircut makes my face look
smaller.
Gazing at these pale waifs
I wonder if they’re hungry,
if their feet ache from
years of high heels,
if their faces feel naked
without makeup,
if deference ever becomes too much to bear.
And the longer I look at the man
in the moon in Korea
the more I am sure he is
a woman,
bare-armed and barefoot
round lips unrouged
mouth singing with the joy of escape,
eyes sad from the distance between us.