once, her arms squeezed milk out of snow
we all know that knots
row an earth’s rope in
that our dark legs
will climb up healing fists—
in a ribcage where her hands
tug on the air like felt
my mother finds the name water
sweating blue cloud hairs
Vent
In an ocean, each whirlpool
is a small piece of glass
as white as lost
stones: we call this eyesight
엄마 says to me
as I lie in her womb. Her face
is a boat that fell
into a whirlpool. Like its rotation
her wrists ask for burial
from the sky.
