Fragment I (from The Yellow House)

there is a mystery, a secret,
a memory repressed on the steps
that led to the second floor
in our house in Korea that dad built for us.
it was gray (the building, remembering)
it was white (the air around it, winter)
it wasn’t yellow (the dream of it, wanting)

there is crying.

there is a ghost.

there is my father.

there is me.

it is winter.
then summer.

it is the beginning (of self, running)