I only have one memory of you,
before the sickness. 

We drove down to the Korean
countryside—

out where the ocean seemed to 
go on forever; 

out where my brother ate so many
plums his fingers 

stained a purple so dark, Mom
thought you’d hit him; 

out where I almost drowned for
the first time. 

If I think hard, I can still feel the
water in my lungs, 

the ringing of my ears, limbs tangled
fighting—or were they 

dancing?—in the blue. I don’t
know how I got 

back to shore, but I did, and eight
days later, Mom 

packed our bags because she 
couldn’t stand 

the green-glassed soju,
the white fresh cigarettes, 

and the weight of a father. Before 
I got on the bus,
you made me promise to write,
and I promised, 

but I never wrote, and
two years later, 

you sent me a letter asking why
I broke my word. 

Two years after that, you
were dying, cancer-ridden 

in some Californian hospital,
and I prayed for you 

to die quicker, just so
everyone could come home. 

It’s been another two
years, and I still haven’t 

visited your grave, still haven’t
written any letters, 

but I’m writing this now, and that
has to count for something. 

I’m writing this now, and I think
if we just met now, 

I really could have loved you.