My Grandmother, A Year Before She Died of Brain Cancer

I am listening to your soft voice

            As it weaves through the tapping

            Of the monsoon raindrops     

            On a tin roof

In a green and blue house in Seoul.

Fences encircle us.

Paper cards buckle under the wet air.

You are boiling chicken.

           

            I look at you, not comprehending

(your mouth forms vowels, your hands pantomime)

            I nod yes

I mouth neh,

            Neh, halmunee

I am remembering your gnarled hands

            Braiding my hair

            In thick and heavy ropes

            Covering my chin in

            An orange butterfly blanket

            Tugging gently at tender roots

            Hiding underfoot

I touch your hair

            Still gleaming black

(the few white patches

shocking rabbit fur)

We listen to the rain as it skips heavy on the roof

            Like giant pebbles.


© Jane Park