Has never heard of rock, certainly not of roll, no chance of spiritualizing the mushaboom,

transatlantic, Chicago sounds of indie gods, never worn black polished nails that danced like

tappers along the frets of an electric guitar. She mesmerizes with buchaechum, spins like the

flicker of flame, here and gone. She doesn’t memorize facts about vikings, fur traders, or the

Quebecois, instead recalls the Gwangju uprising, Japanese occupation, the Korean war—Korean

me knows history like a commute, the fast turns of imperial/colonial/ism, black & white faces of

people who could be her family blur by like trees out the window. She has the clearest opinions

about the country’s forced fissure—she’s so good at explaining everything in Korean. Never

foreign. There are no accents. No English. She never goes to church; she prays to her ancestors.

Korean me, I think, still loves to sing—Korean songs with all the Korean feeling simmering

behind lyrics. Her family is tethered to a large stone on top of hallasan & they live in the clouds

like gods. If I was Korean me, I would be an island, whole & unfindable.