Return to Top of Page
Menu
  • Close
  • About Us
  • Contributors
  • Donate
  • Opportunities
  • Staff
  • Submissions
  • 20 Years
  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Search Website
Literary Mama
  • Current Issue
  • Past Issues
  • Departments
  • Blog
  • Newsletter

Poetry | August 2005

Nameless Almost First

By Mary Chi-Whi Kim

I never buried you, you who inched your way
blind down a seamless corridor,
nestled within me for one spare
season, sewing a crimson fabric

which once I sewed,
sewers and sown as we
all once were, stitching each
moment closer to breath. Blood

brocade of our first, wordless homes,
inheritance no less than quilts of soil,
or sky-borne silk of breathing stars,
our days of flesh and earth and ash.

Embroidered a live constellation
pulsing with beats, an intimate
crinoline we both wore, your outside,
my inside, together interwoven.

One stitch dropped, one skipped
beat, a silent tearing opened
between us — you skirted

birth, fabric seething with life
unraveling in rivulets,
a shimmering garnet
pool at my feet.

Stripped. One livid remnant
curling a thumb-sized
question caught me

at sunsets when crimson laces the sky,
or dark-eyed poppies nod in the distance,
or gray-gauze clouds spatter the earth.

I turn slowly now, catch the hand
of August winds pulling my skirt.
There, then, I hear you, I hear
you answer.

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Share This Page

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Email
  • Copy Link

Mary Chi-Whi Kim

Learn More

Subscribe to Our Newsletter

Don't miss out on Literary Mama news and updates

[mc4wp_form id="24407"]
  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Instagram
  • RSS

© 2023 Literary Mama | Search Site | About Us | Staff | Submissions | Privacy Policy