Because my mother loves you, you sing in my apartment.
An aria ends drip-drying. The first breath is the cleaver, rising.
Then the rupture from you goes–
That is what you do. Your vocal cords weathered decades ago,
and today, a wedlocked immigrant’s daughter cradles her phone
to hear you. The apartment condenses with your call.
Even so, you are only to be listened to in moments
when I miss her. For if brought out too often,
just as any gold-rimmed porcelain becomes a dinner plate
you shall only be a voice.
Haro Lee lives in South Korea with her grandmother. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in Michigan Quarterly Review, Zone 3 Press, The Offing, The Indianapolis Review, and elsewhere. She was the recipient of Epiphany Magazine’s Breakout 8 Writers Prize. You can find her in Instagram at @pilnyeosdaughter.
Image: “St. Joseph auditorium decorated for the Senior Informal October 31, 1925” from the Albany Public Library History Collection
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