A Korean-American Explains Why She Loves Her Music

(inspired by “A Wife Explains Why She Likes Country” by Barbara Ras)

Because the songs that spill from these American radio stations

taste like cherry lollipops and melting slushie cones

and leave behind too-bright colors on my tongue;

have you ever tasted what we sound like?

Like lemon drop

suns caught on the ridges of the stone wall guarding

a dead persimmon tree. My grandmother’s cicadas are

singing summer away.

Like beer souring

under the shadows of strangers’ cigarettes.

I'd trade my secrets for a kiss; I hate

the way my words begin to melt and fall

from my tongue, unidentifiable.

Like jjigae too hot

for me to taste. I watch as it cools

as my grandfather waits for my skin

to peel, like a persimmon

under a knife.

Like watered-down coffee,

never bitter enough. Our fathers

have all learned the proper way

to shoot a man. (Carefully, and

without breathing.)

Listen to our yawning melodies,

with verses that cannot end in cleanly cut rhymes.

Here, music spills from soju glasses and breathes on

the spoons and knives.

I have spent a lifetime waiting for a family,

as the music continues to melt

on my parted lips.