A Little Cheonyeo Gwishin Appears in My Kitchen

She snaps the heads

off dried anchovies,

their eyes a black

ant hill burying my toes.

I’m breaking doenjang

with the flat head

of a metal spoon,

stirring the boomerang

silver bodies she drops.

Whenever she feels

like showing up, we cook

together. She opens

the tofu, smashes

the watery curd with her

foot, and soaks

a package of dried kelp

in the trash. The brittle

pieces like unspooling

magnetic tape.

Today, she sticks her white face

through this seaweed curtain,

red lips smearing,

whispering look

look this is just like my hair.

Why don’t you ever

brush it? She disappears.

Now she chatters about

how much salt I’ll ingest

by putting that much

doenjang in, scooping

the anchovy eyes and

dumping them in the stew.

Aren’t you supposed

to be bothering men?

You’re from paradise—

why are you here?

She rises up. Her arms

hang like wet ropes,

head tilting until

her chin points

to the ceiling.

She cries, Why am I

here? None of my mothers

will tell me why I am here.

Source: Poetry (January 2020)