Back to Issue Fifty-Eight

BATHHOUSE

by YEAN KIM

Each Sunday, grandma and I bloated our bodies. I was
Seven. We sat in the hottest tub. I had a naked

Barbie doll, its blond hair russet in the water. I pressed
Its legs together & called it a mermaid while grandma

Laid on a plastic slab like Abraham’s ram & a lady scrubbed her dead
Skin where green jellies emerged & my nerves turned boiling

Water into banana milk; See, I was a daughter of God. I kicked the
Water triumphantly like the belly of the woman I once dwelled in,

Who left because maybe I was too strong or dreamy. & For the eon
Of thirty minutes, I was free. Till the lady called, Next! & Gentle,

I pleaded as the gloves rubbed my back, my toenails numb against
The slab & my fingers squirmy till I peeled red like grandma’s flower

Cards; Parents’ Day carnations father tossed at her nose, following her
Such a waste of money; my shin’s welts she kept

Staring at as I walked to school & waved,
Red crosses cutting her post-op heart.

WINTER ELEGY

by YEAN KIM

The sudden daylight hours
& sudden sonnets

of sparrows are daunting,
to say the least. I’m not

used to this. Not used
to the sun & its belted

rays squeezing my cheeks
to rejoice in God’s

wonderful green. What
the fuck. I was happy

depressed under
the blanket by a cat

who never asks are you
okay. Now I have

to walk & buy more
sundresses before my

breasts touch my toes. Un
fair. Bring it back.

Bring my puffer back.

author pic here

Yean (“Yen”) Kim is pursuing an MFA in Fiction at Indiana University, where she also serves as the fiction editor of Indiana Review. She writes about memory, death, ghosts, god, and embarrassing moments. She has a cat named Gamja, which means “potato” in Korean. It’s Yean and Gamja against the world.

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