할머니

할머니¹ no longer belongs just to me.
Out of every man, woman, and child
the word slips from open mouths
casually, carelessly.

Their teeth barely catching its edge.

She was Halmoni and she was mine,
growing into a god.
Framed by a halo of stories
sown by the lips of my mother.

Grandmother
born of her daughter, delivered
to the girl who
shares her name.

I climb my roots across the ocean.

Reaching within and without,
glimpsing her in roses,
curved backs in the market.
The mountains gaze at us both.

There’s so much
I remember I’ve forgotten.
As stories start to fade
the gaps gain flesh and earth.

Our bodies meet in Jeonju.

My soles where my mother began.
The air wrinkles
together. Three generations.
One pair of shoes.

[Featured photo by Kierstin Conaway]