the back of the wind -- poetry by Jennifer Choi

1.

before summer arrived, i was told to turn on the air conditioner.                   

the repairman on the screen was old & simple, with worn-out buttons.          as he took the air conditioner apart, orderly rain began to fall, 

& last spring, the air conditioner had stayed alive for a while.

2.

whenever the wind stirred in the empty house, hunger crept in.         

the typhoon gathered broken gusts of wind each night & filled my old belly.                 

gripping my puffed-up collar, as i breathed cold air into the corners of the house,                                            the name “you” grew lighter & lighter.            

from the television to the clock & even the crumpled shoes, on the day they left their backs behind & rose,

my shadow & i stopped sending out the names of the dead.

3.

the coiled intestines endlessly sucked in something.

countless thoughts & unfamiliar seeds passed through the damp passage, growing into sounds.

the weight & moisture were constantly worn away,

so i knew that one day the rattling propeller would stop & the door would fold.

but while wiping my coughing nose, the house continued to grow heavier.

thin skin brushed the walls & expanded.

in every corner of the room, where summer colds sprouted like new buds,

small gravestones were quietly set up.

4.

rumors, having lost their direction, whispered at the door / sharp temperatures broke through / carried by the wind / before the dark clouds arrived, i sat down, carving & hammering / the doors that had roughly sprouted / in the long tunnel where inside & outside were reversed / i unknowingly consumed the things that had swollen / the outside had long ago kidnapped the inside / & with the sharp hail, like rain, i caught it in my hat, my heart slowly racing / along the dust-covered canopy, a waterway began to form / i walked slowly inside the watering can, which tilted as if about to fall.

5.

don’t ask, what shape is the shadow on the shore without the moon & sun?                         

what color are the patterns of the seasons crossing the floor?                                   

where do the tears of the stars that fluttered fall & grow?

6. 

outside the frozen frame, the season, braided & spiraled, hides its end & runs away.               

i open the slightly gentle, passive air conditioner & take a deep breath.                         

the white, flat buttons rise with the wind, like dry grass.              

because i am transparent, because i am sitting,

i can swim farther than anyone.

---

Jennifer Choi is a passionate high school student. Her work has previously been published or is forthcoming in Altered Reality Magazine, Academy of Heart and Mind, and Culterate Magazine among others.