TRACK//FOUR
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    • VOLUME ONE >
      • ISSUE ONE
      • ISSUE TWO
      • ISSUE THREE
      • ISSUE FOUR
    • VOLUME TWO >
      • ISSUE ONE
      • ISSUE TWO
      • ISSUE THREE
      • ISSUE FOUR
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BACK TO VOLUME ONE // ISSUE ONE

SCENE

​CHRISTINA IM
So the killer
has a face.

            There are four
            wrong ways

of laying the blame
and all of them

            end with the yellow
            of the streetlamp

halfway
down my throat.

            It’s telling that I
            can only compare

my skin
to a source of light


            when it’s past midnight
            and my father’s

stopped singing.
America tells me

            there’s no shame
            in being someone’s daughter

loudly.
As always,

            America doesn’t
            know shit.

The murderer
can’t move on

            from the face that’s not
            at the window. In

the same way,
I imagine the sight


            of an open grave.
            Shadow

with no clean exit.
If I fall far enough

            I may wake up
            in my country. Say

I don’t know
who fired the shot, only


            that it helped me
            get here. Or I don’t know

whose flesh that light
is coming from,


            only that summer
            will outrun us

before morning.
Lean into the dirt

            a little closer to my
            heroes, arms spread

​wide enough
to catch a bullet--

AMERICAN EXPERIMENT

​CHRISTINA IM
After Lin-Manuel Miranda
                        With my friends all scattered
to the winds, I open my eyes
                        and fear. The mountains
spill into mouths shot
                        open like the memory
of birds. It’s a lovely day
                        to have my hands
cut off; the doctor
                        told me so. He knows me
even better than hunger does.
                        Says I imagine death
this much for a reason.
                        When he ties my wrists
--another test, dear girl--
                        it feels more like a dream
worth the wounds. Finally,
                        a revolution I can put
a name to. We move
                        as one through the walls
of a dead girl’s eyes.
                        This room, like the others:
walls white as bone un-
                        blasted. Perfect daughter
sitting smoke-bomb still
                        at the table. The world
turned upside down:
                        a new language seething
between her teeth. Papers
                        strewn every which way
before her. The doctor says
                        Look. She’s staring straight
at us, about to call out--
                        fingers pressed to the manila
envelope. Big yellow one
                        the size of my heart
when flattened. Look.
                        It’s on fire. This part
is important. I swear
                        it looks like the grave
where I learned to fly.
                        Closer and closer and closer
until I remember money,
                        and metal, and prayers scrubbed
clean of their smoke,
                        all the while birds shrieking
new scars behind my eyes,
                        until--Look out!
                        The room collapses.
The whole damn thing
                        folding into surrender
like water. Girl peeling
                        away from her wings. Wings
blood-tied to every cold
                        new shore. And there
on the bank—the doctor
                        with a gun in his pocket. Smiling.
Taking notes even now.
                        By the time I land
I have plucked all my limbs
                        from his lips. The sky
still ahead and murderous.
                        I stand with my head
                        in its maw. My feathers
thunder-blown to his feet.
                        He stares and stares. Look,
he says to no one,
                        desperate with love.

You could build a country on that.

SEOUL IS SINGING NOW

​CHRISTINA IM
but all that comes out / is blood. Spice kicks back / in the foreigner’s gut: failed autopsy / of the color red. Sundown / & the city sees you. Monsoon season smeared / across its orbit. Myeongdong screeching / like a fallen star & every night-soft tremor / to try & hold it still. The city says / it’s easy / to admit a fear / of the dark. Monolid menace around / every corner. Grinning lips stained / electric. O broken-nosed / o crashing: could teach you / a thing or two / about plastic. Every high note sweet / & falser for it. Every alien voice / a pulseless cavity. Hasn’t anyone / told you? No land will be worn / without its frame of bruises. The body / goes home to the concrete in / its own way. Can’t / be helped. As a rule / a Seoul song rises / to abolish its abductor. / Less crime scene settling / more broken windows / after riot. Less perfect victim / more jury saw-toothed / & standing by the guillotine. The blade higher / than guilt but no higher. Every spare hand / & noose / the only mercy left / before gravity & laughter. Natural law. Of all people you / should know what happens / with power so near: the fingers / start to itch. & in the four chambers / of the city’s heart / children keep the beat.

Picture
CHRISTINA IM is a Korean-American writer and high school student from Portland, Oregon. Her fiction and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in YARN, Strange Horizons, Fissure Magazine, and The Adroit Journal, among others. In addition, her work has been recognized by Hollins University, the Adroit Prize for Poetry, and the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers. ​
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  • ABOUT
    • MASTHEAD
    • CONTACT
    • CONTRIBUTORS
  • ISSUES
    • VOLUME ONE >
      • ISSUE ONE
      • ISSUE TWO
      • ISSUE THREE
      • ISSUE FOUR
    • VOLUME TWO >
      • ISSUE ONE
      • ISSUE TWO
      • ISSUE THREE
      • ISSUE FOUR
  • SUBMISSIONS
  • BLOG