Outside
Korean.
Page 8.
Her eyes are closed, her chin tilted upwards. Her lips are pursed and turned up in the corners, with a slight smile. Her arms rest gently on his back and the nape of his neck; her eyebrows are thinking. They relax. Her lips are starting to part and suddenly he turns, his lips brush her cheek —
I close my laptop.
The room is silent.
In my blankets alone I wonder:
Did they love more because they speak the same native tongue or
(do native tongues count if attitudes differ)
Did they know the right moment to exhale
(the right words in sighs— )
Or would they not even have to speak — just stare
into each other’s eyes
speak language in nerves,
fingertips,
fuzz,
buds,
eyelashes —
How does one love
to have an expression like hers,
because when I think of love in my language, I squirm
I’ve never heard it outside of Ye-su and Sin
— an unfortunate vision to have
in the union of flesh,
like if priests watched you outside of the covers,
complicit,
but their eyes override the pleasures of
sharing —
How does she love?
It’s fiction, of course but
On legal screen only the union of
blonde peach and occasional ash is wholesome
and outside of the discretion of
holy, unholy while
fish sauce and earth
is war comfort spoils geisha fantasy lotus me love you long time…
it’s all the same to them
or so I feel
I feel wistful to have never heard it
in a way worth its weight.
Always fiction, utterly harmless; a blunt butter knife, or even, the butter
like if he threw it on the floor and so
I threw it away.
I didn’t want lukewarm
utensils that knew less than
what my fingers can spread.
In the aftermath, I ache. There is a serious
gap between my fingertips and the edge
of my bed,
and the night hurts.