I was afraid to walk outside in case the rain would catch me standing as I am and was; alone, unrequited, an apple-pitted girl against whatever comes to mind.  Say it, anything, dance damply under the unmoving ceiling fan and move like falling wind in summer.  The only time I feel like me, summer.  The only time to stop and not feel immobile; the only time to move and not feel pushed.  The only happy time.  Have an apple, feel it to the core.  Wear a dress, and let the rain fall through it and the wind soak it so the clinging mocks your need to hold on, but still let go, and watch it tumble down your legs and mouth; cling to something far away, through dreams.  Like flimsy cloth, you and I, like warmth and wind and rain, we can be.  You and me.  Or just me alone.  Unrequited, clinging to the edge of the line where the rain starts, racing hearts, which will cross the line first? Who will win?  It's the decision of my life, whether to walk into the rain or not.  But it's the time that catches me against my watch, and so embarrassed, I let my hand catch the rain until it stops suddenly.

During the war, I was in China.
Every night we blew the world to hell.
The sky was purple and yellow
like his favorite shirt.

I was in India once
on the Ganges in a tourist boat.
There were soldiers,
some women with parasols.
A dead body floated  by
going in the opposite direction.
My son likes this story
and requests it each year at Thanksgiving.

When he was twelve,
there was an accident.
He almost went blind.
For three weeks he lay in the hospital,
his eyes bandaged.
He did not like visitors,
but if they came
he'd silently hold their hand as they talked.

Small attentions
are all he requires.
Tell him you never saw anyone
so adept
at parallel parking.

Still, your life will not be easy.
Just look in the drawer where he keeps his socks.
Nothing matches.  And what's the turtle shell
doing there, or the map of the moon,
or the surgeon's plastic model of a take-apart heart?

You must understand --
he doesn't see the world clearly.
Once he screamed, "The woods are on fire!"
when it was only a blue cloud of insects
lifting from the trees.

But he's a good boy.
He likes to kiss
and be kissed.
I remember mornings
he would wake me, stroking my whiskers
and kissing my hand.

He'll tell you -- and it's true --
he prefers the green of your eyes
to all the green life
of heaven and earth.

I used to be a mover.
I ran, and danced, and climbed trees.
If I saw somethng I wanted, I reached for it, worked for it, or asked an adult to get it for me.  
I would fidget and squirm at the dinner table and in Mass.
I did not question, I just did.



I used to say things.
I sang, rhymed and questioned with impunity.
I behaved as though everyone was hanging on my every word.  
People were constantly telling me to be quiet.  I made them listen.
My voice connected me to the world, it proved I was real.



I used to laugh more.
Giggled, chortled and chuckled with glee.
It was my first reaction to anything new and novel.  
It bubbled out of me, tickling my throat as it filled the room.
I measured the worth of a day by how much I had laughed.



I used to get lost in things.
In the fields, in untying knots, in books, especially in books.
I deliberately took wrong turnings just to see what was there,
and hid under my bed with a book and a torch and spoke to no one.
I felt so disheartened when I found my way again.



I used to create.
I crafted, sketched and wrote for hours at a time.
It just poured from my fingertips.  It was only completed when the smile came.  
A bright, beaming smile, bursting out of me.  I would burn with furious pride over 8 lines of mispelled rhymes about a purple monster.
I believed the only things you own, are the things you make.



Now I am uncertain.
Tentative, unsure, and above all; Silent.
Now I only move with a destination in mind.  
I am economical and perfunctory with my movements.                                                       ­             
I don't know how to use words anymore, the language has changed.  
The pen feels uncomfortable in my hand, while I agonise over the exact right words.

Being lost frightens me, and seems like a waste of time.

Creating things (non-edible things) are just extra pieces of baggage you must carry around.  Pointless and deflating, they chew their way into every part of your brain to fester and breed.
And people know when you've got poems gnawing your thoughts, and they will instantly distrust you.


But now.
Right now, as I near the end of this train of thought.
The Mover awakens within me.  I smile and crave company.
I have a sudden yearning to once again take a wrong turn.

I will not sleep tonight.

Do not stay idle nor linger for fear

There is great peril for those who wait here

And do not be merry, nor chortle with glee

For The Watcher at the window points his finger at thee



His face it is gaunt, flesh numb to the bone

He acts with great malice to those who stay alone

Do not stop!  Dear Traveller, saddle up your horse

And be silent as you leave or be filled with remorse



Make haste and be solemn, don’t look back upon depart,

For there is blood on his hands and grief in his heart.

When you look at me
Do you look at me as an individual
or a stereotype?

Do you think of me as an independent person with personalities?
Or must I be the same as another because of my skin?

Who am I?
Am I forced to be a patriot of my birth country?
Am I forced to act like my own "kind"?

Who am I?

What must I do to prove?

What must I do to prove myself?

I am patriotic to America.
Not Korea.
I never have and never will.
But will people see me as an American or Korean?
I have lived more than half of my life in my home state Ohio,
but am I an Ohioan?

I want to go to West Point and serve my country.
Do people see that I have no other motives than loyalty?
Or do people see me as a spy?

I want to be an US Senator.
Will I be called the first Korean Senator?

Why can't I be me.
Why can't I choose who to be loyal to?
Why am I destined?
I have loved my country.

But why?

Why?

Please answer me why?

Why do you break my heart America?
You see me as a Korean,
but I never was a Korean.

I am full One-Hundred Percent,
Toby Keith Lovin',
Terrorist Hatin',
Semper Fi Yellin',
Flag Salutin'
Till Death do us part Patriot,

But yet,
You call me a foreigner.
You call me an outsider.
You call me an outcast.

I read US History,
I memorized the Pledge of Allegiance,
I know and love my country from
Jamestown to Now.
At school I am made fun of for being more patriotic than actual citizens.

But yet,
You deny me,
You say you don't know me,
You rejected me.

Why?
I gave my life to you.

Why?
I sacrificed my world to serve you.

Why?

Why do you do this to me?

I beg you!

Please do not look at me as a Korean.
Please do not look at me as an Asian.
Please do not look at me as a Foreigner.

Look at me.

Look at me,
as a Proud American.

I came here to be part of the great Melting ***,
I came here for opportunities!
I came here!

I came here!

I am not a Korean.

I am!

A Proud American.