a divine dinner tune
when we gathered around the kitchen table,
holding hands as my mother said grace,
the clatter of plates rang like beating drums
while the dumplings cracked like fireworks
on the frying pan. our voices were keys of a
piano. every conversation played in my
ears as a melodic tune. blinded by rising
steam and golden, glimmering sunlight
peeking through the windows, all i sensed
was laughter. chuckles were strings on a
violin as we sang the same song. i realized
i no longer feared forever, rather, the end.
i yearned for time to slow as the voices of
my siblings rang like church bells through
my ears. i muttered a “thank you” to
whoever watched over us, as this joy could
be the work of no less than divine powers.
the relentless pursuit
The leaf was auburn as it drifted
down, down, down,
descending through
breezy, foggy air.
Like the petals upon the surrounding
branches, its tip had browned,
turned red and orange with fall,
as it fell like unfurling ribbons.
Its descent slowed as it grazed the
sniffing nose of a hound, whose
brown fur seemed to unfurl atop
the graveyard of browned leaves
upon which it stood.
A flinch from the hound spurred the leaf forward.
Its long ears perking, the hound began its
hurried chase after the windswept, fallen leaf.
A cold, autumn breeze swept its ears
behind like drooping curtains as the hound
shot forward, chasing the rusted leaf
like a moth to a fiery flame. All else
blurred as its focus centered upon
the relentless pursuit. Unknowing of
having reached the pier, its speed endured.
Then, cold enveloped the hound’s body.
The bubbling, bright blue water was a thick,
crisp blanket upon adrenaline-fueled
skin. The hound, eyes unfocusing at last,
spun upon the lake until its pupils calmly
gazed up at the azure blue sky above.
making glutinous rice with mother
in my mind, i am twelve years old,
besides my beautiful, giggling mother,
molding glutinous rice into neat balls
with my flour-covered hands.
the kitchen is painted with a haze of thick, gray steam,
curling like silken ribbons around our dusty faces.
the earthy scent of sugar mingling with rice clings
to our hair, heavy as morning dew. my floury hands
press into the glutinous rice, its surface soft and sticky
as wet clay. powdery imprints bloom across the countertop
like fragile petals. mother twirls like a child herself, her
laughter a melody ringing soundly in my ears, as she sprinkles
my fingernails with sugar, or fairy dust, as she calls it. when she
tosses the rice into the air, it arcs like shooting stars across the
kitchen. her smile is like the bright, shimmering moonlight.
in reality, i am sixteen years old,
watching the horizon for a letter she
promised would arrive at the break of
dawn. foolish hope carves into my chest.
sunlight creeps in, sluggish and pale, its mustard yellow rays
pooling at my feet. my hands tremble as they clutch the
metal lid of the mailbox, its cold biting my fingertips.
when mother left, she swore one thing. like the scorpion
in the fairytales she once read to soothe me, her promises now
stung sharply with the venom of deceit. i send my wishes
to shooting stars as though i am sending paper boats
into harsh waters. i fold them with trembling hands,
yet each sinks into dark navy seas, unanswered as
they are swallowed whole by the hopelessly deep abyss.
Arises
melted snow still stained the ground below me—
splotchy brown paint. the rigid tree branches were
barren; their leaves had turned auburn then umber
brown before crumbling to the floor in late november.
march was ascending, yet the bleak cold of winter
remained. but one leaf had burst forth from a fragile
twig: spear-shaped and lime green, it stood alone
above the fallen—the final soldier beside a desolate
battlefield. amid a mound of death, life emerges.
amid disorder and turmoil, hope arises.
Traversing the Swamp
As I traverse,
the trees lean in,
blanketed in rusty bark
and tanned by the sun.
Their limbs twist,
poking me with each move,
like frail fingers
stopping my tracks.
I step through the
moss-thick floor,
damp and humid.
Ferns slowly unfurl around me,
brushing the soil with its
sticky touch.
Roots writhe beneath me
like twisting snakes,
as the bark peels back,
revealing redness
like sunburnt skin,
The forest seems to watch
my every cautious move
as I traverse through.
bio: Grace Lee, a high school student in Seoul, South Korea, is passionate about words. Whether crafting stories or poems, she blends her unique perspective with the vibrant culture of Seoul. She has explored her passion for creative writing at the Kenyon Review Young Writers Workshop and Juniper Young Writers Online.