"a divine dinner tune", "the relentless prusuit", "making glutinous rice with mother", "Arises", "and Traversing the Swamp" by Grace Lee

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.