Haibun for S.G.

Hauibun for S.G.

Back then, I still believed nothing went unpunished. Unable to forgive myself for more than an hour at a time, I let the whole garden decay. The melons split into thirds and clay dolls sprouted from the rot. The aphids chewed the cabbage into lace. I prayed myself into delirium, facing the Big Dipper, then shrieked myself out of it. I hung my vocal cords to dry after drowning them in green tea. I began taking your absence like medicine, corrective against the voracious gene of desire lines. How can I unfever myself of your fingernails, sharp like arrowheads through my dew-flushed skin? Swaths of life are missing from the both of us and I have nowhere to flee; truthfully, I am scented with your haunt. There is no arch leading to the plaza, no plaza leading to the park. Only a bridge of magpies, once a year, that may lead me to your door. The word remote comes from botany: the exact distance between two flowers. If you must sow into the ground, take hold where I can face you. I tire of leaving messages in the burning bush. I tire of the quiet stage, of trolls hibernating in the arboretum. Sleep on me now, angel. Warm you closer with me, this last kiss roughened by sentenc-ing, softened by a vow.

My cherished Cowherd

the bloom in my heart-meadow

asleep in Tashkent

Sarah Kim