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--
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.
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.
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.
