Ae Hee Lee

 

Ae Hee Lee is South Korean by birth but Peruvian by memory. She has recently graduated with her MFA from the University of Notre Dame and is now a PhD candidate in Poetry at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. She was winner of the 2016 Billy Maich Academy of American Poets Prize and was nominated for the 2016 Best New Poets Anthology. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming at the Denver Quarterly, Cha, Cobalt, Ruminate, Duende, and The Margins, among others

 

 

Deborah

 

after Silvia Plath

 

Your mouth a dribbling mouthpiece of God.

If the people do not take your words—

Raw honey glory—

 

You will not swallow back,

But pour and become a scourge of chronicles.

You have warned.

 

Your sinewy confidence?

Hush—

You dare all to sink

 

A jagged pebble onto the pond of mud—

Many think this the absolution

Of all human kind!

 

Give your sister a knife-point peg

Her arm a slender, hammer of a woodpecker beak,

A long barbed woodpecker tongue.

 

She will dig it

Into a shrieking skull—

A scampering man on a geometric rug.

 

Peace a white pearl held constricted

By those that would judge.

This step-mother of a desert—

Déjà vu—ha!

 

 

You Return

 

to the hills of chestnut trees where your mother birthed you

from one spiny burr. At the dingy corner shop, your cousins tell you the 500 won melon ice cream is now 1000.

Their grandmother, with a cigarette

lighted by the sun between her fingers, offers

rhombus peppermint candies.

But they prefer kitkats.

You return to a town that knew

you

for the life time of a wandering mutt, where childhood friends left

or replaced you with memories of you.

The beach still sells green fishing lines tied up to planks of wood

with a bag of coquina clams on the side.

Only a different set of brown hands. Only new

waves serenading the sunset

until she drowns.

You return to your room filled with books

you will leave at an orphanage’s door in a basket,

because the walls tell you this is not your home. During winter,

a squirrel visits your veranda

for the bread crumbs that fall under your table.

You invite it in but its whiskers tingle with distrust.

 

Surely, you will return to the mold of clay

you came from. A pillar of fire will throw

his arms up to meet you—

his prodigal daughter.

He will kiss your palms and slip

hot, ruby rings

onto your toes. You will drink deep his dark breath

as you burrow

your face on his neck,

confess to him there has always been

a faceless layer of vacuum between the familiar

and the unknown everywhere you went,

but not here.

(You will pray to him, not here)

 

 

Marcos Zapata’s La Ultima Cena (Cathedral of Cuzco)

 

The altiplano follows the cerulean night into the room

that shouldn’t exist.

The Son of man holds his own body up as if it were a piece of bread

while twelve fail to see the future painted behind their backs;

prophecy likes to play hide-and-seek.

 

But two are staring right at you,

the omniscient and the guilty.

We have a spy in our midst, they signal with their eyes.

 

One refers to the heart that will scatter like thirty pieces of silver

cast onto temple grounds

after he tangles a rope around its aorta.

 

The other— fated to look like a dark Pizarro by its creator

in both nose shape and hands colored with blood-money—

is really more preoccupied with the cuy on the golden platter

and how it doesn’t belong.

 

last supper

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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