Slathered Aloe
WRITTEN BY ARIEL KIM
cracked, dry hands like asphalt,
each breath drawing air from a wet harmonica;
this isn’t the world she knew so
i’m changing it. that twin-sized lower bunk bed
with shade obscuring her vision; i’m pulling it by the
covers and upturning the metal rungs. instead
let’s plaster the walls with photos
of her glossy youth. as her thighs sigh deep
into silk covers that finally complement
the room’s decor, i melt into
the past and i’m giving her a husband
who speaks her language, at the very least he doesn’t
throw fists across the room
sober.
i’m giving her a husband
who doesn’t uproot her every origin and instead
draws forth tradition, each fleshy petal
of the onion breaking apart
in clumps. i watch from the closet of an alien
home
as the two question each other in familiar dialect, bringing the
volume to a crescendo in a rhythmic synergy. the air tastes
like static. their eyes, wide like newborns, pool
from the acrid tang of axillary bud because sometimes
It’s better to share the same roots. here
smells of gochujang and seolleongtang waft through the
house, foods she missed because
we’re korean but only in blood and we like
pasta and chinese-takeout. here childhood friends and
familiarity paint the sky in soft shades of dawn. and although
her hands are now soft without slathered aloe,
her spine without specter pains
as my eyes trace the foreign marks
stretched across her abdomen,
i gasp for new lungs
for what a wonder it is
to choose one happiness over the other.