In Korean, it’s the same
strand of wind just unspooled
a little further.
*
I sigh, and it’s as if I’ve blown
onto my father’s brow
until it crumples—
*
There’s endlessness
in the han-sum: an inward-
stretching universe of lungs
and dark matter.
*
At my sighing habit,
my father rephrases
an idiom, says, at this rate
the draft will cleave
the ground under your feet,
make the earth flicker
out like a sparkler's afterglow.
*
I’m assured
even the smallest breath can
ripple.
This poem was originally published at Small Orange Journal and republished here with the kind permission of the author.
