Dust
By Jess McKay, a first-year ETA in Sejong Zoya Hsiao, “Yellow,” Busan My students know dust before air dust before wind and dust before breath. In our classroom, we translate the world around us; they point and pry for words to be known. “How’s the weather?” I ask. “Misemeonji is bad,” they say. “Dust. In English, it is dust,” I reply. The dust is bad. My students know dust before clarity. They string words together hoping their speech prompts a positive response. “Dust is good,” they say. Implying that we should go outside. My students know mask before grin Mask before laugh And mask before breath. Naomi Robalino, “Young Again,” Mokpo My students wear masks as they speak. “The dust is bad,” I say. “No, teacher. No, it’s okay.” Their small brows scrunch on their face as they search for justifications. They can do this before explaining the sensation of a laugh as it rises from the root of the belly. They can do this before explaining how rich the air tastes after a long swim. They can do this before explaining the breath before a cannonball the breath before a song. My students know dust.
S.A.D.
By Pel Doski, a first-year ETA in Docheon, Changnyeong Zoya Hsiao, “Spring Daze,” Gimhae Seasons change,Title. Seasonal Affective Disorder (S.A.D.) and I with them. Gently folding old skin and entering the new. When ginko leaves fell, so did my heart. When days became cold I followed suit. I imitate nature like when fish gather below their thick icy protection. When cherries blossom, I allow my skin to melt and water my feet as sunshine feeds my brain. Suzanne Chen, “Anticipating Love,” Buyeo When heat dries soil into a cracked terrain, I hide in a cicada song. Too afraid to fall in the cracks. When you ask me, How do you do? Look to the forecast for your answer. Or so I say, because it’s on days like these, when dark clouds wash the streets I wonder why I’m so… sad.
Station Thoughts
Hana Yi, “Night Bridge” By Pel Doski, a first-year ETA in Docheon I’m sitting here in between where travelers wander. At my feet turtles ponder, I count ten or maybe fifteen. A headless woman hops ahead and tiny elephants parade With huge rabbits playing his stead, behind them a party cascades. I’m floating here in between two worlds like a quiet bathroom in a loud house party abloom, when grass has morning sheen. I blink to the trumpet flares as winding witches whip past and bells scream in the air, the end to our wait at last. I’m sleeping in the in between. My head lulls slowly on a heavy shoulder. His hair greying as I grow older As I become the former queen. A tired wind holds my hand. and a solemn voice cheers a kind and familiar kind of demand “Safe travels dear”