/ Michigan quarterly review: Vol. 35, No. 2
CAROLINE KIM NIGHT SEASONS He writes the places he's been on my back, tracing Seoul, San Francisco,fear, solitude, Boston, Bluefield along the curve of my spine, around the foothills of my shoulder blades. For every place there's a story he longs to forget. He tells me the successful immigrant masters the art of amnesia, wanting to block out the circumstances of his life: immigrant, only son. I tell him pulling and pushing is the same motion, the only distinction is direction. We pretend what we have is not love, wrapping ourselves in a landscape of silk and black hair. We agree to talk only about what's past. I tell him I've dipped my toes in the Black Sea, he says he's fallen in love on the subway, I tell him about whitewater rafting and autumn in upstate Maine, he says, I run away. He appears before my door only at night, like a teenage boy whose voice is not yet his, clutching his bag, leaning against the chipped frame. He brings me daisies and black irises with slivers 361
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