Every window, every door—ajar
We tend his grave, we wipe him down
In Seoul, I fall out of love, twice over. The flowers on other graves are of particular interest.
Polyester bouquets blush despite the snow.
There are little things here
I want to hold, soft.
The round fruits move me, their near obscenity
I hold the question
What whets the appetite of ghosts?
I cool in your shadow
I shake you off
My grandmother counts in Japanese still
In the Southwest there are deep valleys where ghosts ride bright on horses
His eyes go deep and then pale
painting petroglyphs with his tongue
A thin horse painted white and shaking
on long stretches of pulled rock
I imagine fingering its ghost leg
wanting to feel its time
10 a.m. pozole
Sloppy from the same bowl
I watch him squeeze limes into the soup full-fisted
sour as it turns
We make love in strange beds
His face pressed against my standing belly
hands skimming up up, ticking
then a sweet
Saehee Cho is a writer and cook. Her poetry and fiction has been published in Tierra Adentro, Entropy, Eleven Eleven, Sidebrow, and Black Clock. She is a regular contributor and organizer for Enter>Text, an on-going performance series interested in the expansive an immersive experience of literature.