sung yung shin
Marching
I can't believe they let children walk so close to buried bombs – I can't believe they let us bathe next to land mines – …that the rocks have not crushed us – … the sky hasn't smothered me – … the road hasn't risen like a terrible black ribbon and whip-cracked that toy soldier into the blue belt of the horizon – … the giant toad hiding under the clutch of mushrooms isn't filled with gold like a bulging silk purse – I can't believe they let children walk so close to buried bombs – … our gods have abandoned us – … the barbed wire wraps around us, rusty, the longest necklace – … what these green trees have seen – …a beautiful girl, a fox, a vision of demons - …what we who have survived - …have yet to see
Superstition
The dead haunt the pools and the dragons gnaw their names into peaks and crags. A fir tree toothpick, a bit of forgotten rotten meat, a man.
“Rough and rugged contours make for warriors and militant males.”
Name this tomb, this woman, this gentle scholar, lesser monster. A lake, mountain pool, a heavenly maiden and Great Father’s rotten rope.
Mixing folk-tales like mixing alcohols.
A ghost chaser and shots of serpent. A chastity belt of captivity. My flaming blue punch bowl of superstition. I am a ladle, an iron spoon sunk to the bottom, distorted, convex, upside down. Heaven is out of reach, I’m plunging sweetly up to Hell.
