Han-sum :: Breath, Singular

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.

 

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This poem was originally published at Small Orange Journal and republished here with the kind permission of the author.