“i wish i could leave you my love
but my heart, is a mess”
—Prateek Kahud
on those cold, tropical days,
wrapped in the languor of
crumpled sheets, i held a pillow
close, not quite the same as holding
breath to my breath, warmth
to my warmth, wishing each utterance
of your name did not have to traverse
an ocean’s reach.
in Seoul, throat parched by the smog
and yellow sand, i remember, through
the briskness of early spring, the dreams
of seeing each narrow alley or
each postmodern gallery or
each familial neighbourhood or
each spoonful of jjigae or
each drift of barbecue smoke or
each dimly-lit noraebang or
each crash of the Han river, wind
drifting, azaleas rustling, each through
the electric of
you.
to have kept your palms
close, wrapped, laced, through the
statues of horse riders in the forest,
or around the warehouses turned
airy cafes, over the plates of kimbap
and spam musubi, sharing the
sharp impression of a perceived
unity, development glossed by
song and screen. meat on a grill,
cars in an expanding lane, ornate
calligraphy hung in palaces, the things
you had yearned to sense for
yourself. i kept your name at the
room of my mouth with each
bite of ssuk souffle. where else
would i be? where else would i
go? swallowing the desire of
your imagined presence?
when the day began, from New York
and Seoul would two constellations
of smog and steam rise and drift,
circling one
another, never sure of what could
have been, what might be, never
indulging in shame, nor fatigue,
saying only in a parched Korean,
I hope you never forget me.
Jonathan Chan is a writer and editor. Born in New York to a Malaysian father and South Korean mother, he was raised in Singapore and educated at Cambridge and Yale Universities. He is the author of the poetry collection going home (Landmark, 2022) and Managing Editor of poetry.sg. He has recently been moved by the work of Clint Smith, Pádraig Ó Tuama, and Dinah Roma. More of his writing can be found at jonbcy.wordpress.com.
Original Art by Dilara Sümbül
