All my focus to read a novel aloud, paragraphs of Korean characters, lumped, systematic syllable blocks. Sounds you—held together, now, with sutures—
pulled from my mouth across a fumbling tongue. Meticulous as ancient ritual, heavy and awkward as lead. Barely one chapter finished near midnight’s silent lull.
These are meaningless sounds to me. Even familiar sentences sink, suffocate in the surrounding incomprehension, like an amateur swimmer in a strait.
But looking up from another mistake, I see you’re listening and still awake.
Michael Kellichner is a poet and writer originally from Pennsylvania, but has been calling South Korea his home for quite a while. Previous poems of his have appeared in various online journals, including Loud Coffee Press, the Tahoma Literary Review, and The Tishman Review, among others.
