KoreaTown

I. 

The nightfall reddens Koreatown’s cheeks—

She’s blushing with anticipation.

1 bowl, 4 dollars!

It’s the sign’s bold cry for help.

Midtown noodle stands sigh in the crisp July 

Air, which breeds the Asian family in me. 

Here, there’s no logic to the eggs and kimchi—

No rhythm to the clank of the passing yogurt carts. 

Scattered along this street, old ajummas exchange

Silent nouns and verbs, heirloom life promises. 

II.

Eyebrows perching on the sun’s edge, hair sun-frizzed—

Sunday knocks on the door, wearing a cap and plain khakis.

Heat is never driven off. How 

Can a girl make a haven out of only exchanged vowels?

Who’s keeping count of what’s been lost?

There’s little I can trace back 

To my drying immigrant blood, even in the midst

Of the metaphors yelling over the shouting aunts.

The uncles drink beers perched on benches.

And in each rice shop, old, apron-wearing ladies sell bowls 

For 4 dollars. Cash only.

III.

The moon drags the sun to the lip of the sky, listening

To the wishes flying along the streets—children

Draw fields of flowers with their wind-bitten kites.

The kites return smelling of salt and pepper spices. 

Is this a town or a home? sunlight

Blinds my thoughts and leaves an empty slate.

As the crack of dawn reddens Koreatown’s cheeks, 

I buy a blushing bowl for dinner.