You want me to tell you something about my life.
That I was carried to pay off a debt, two hundred
steps up an unremarkable hill my mother in 서울
defeated with the strength of a beggar’s bowl, no
breastplate, a generous horse, a king-blessed épée.

A city you would recognize by ear in translation
or if I preach on your soul’s fickleness. How I
was knighted my name as a foal without a sex
by a father who chartered a flight in ’81 to 미국,
beautiful land, to marry eyes as blue and distant

as the Pacific. That I was blessed two good years
with my mother, conferred a boy by my hanging
anatomy, until she was called on to be a good wife
and chartered a flight into the afterlife or at least
what felt like its disaster, distant from her own 몸.

Reader, I’ve sold you my story. I am what you think
wrongly, half-beast, half-boy, too weak to carry
your pastoral flag, your mule-ride, cash strapped
belly-side. You ride and whip me into starlight. Rightly,
no time is enough time 잡아도 잡아도 지나가는 시간.