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House of Sharing Comfort Women

House of Sharing Comfort Women I S H L E P A R K Cards are worn smooth from playing, 5 for luck, 5 for fortune. She drank from pots filled with rice wine, pulled quilt over mouth to cover her smell, listened to Nam Insoo through blanket, stack of songbooks piled by the foot of her yoh. I can forget everything when I sing, when the blood is burnt up. She thinks people without children should be cremated. 3 pine trees. my parents thought they sent me to a good place. my hands like rubber gloves. my heart bleeding. I was 14. Stones in the small village painted with temples and faces. Flash flood melts the road into a river. She danced like this, hands flicking, hip jut, shoulder slant, wrinkles filling her eyes. She cooks white corn over a portable stove, wipes the stain of red pepper from the concrete windowsill, thin tissue shredding in her fingers. At the sill, she tells us to keep secrets from your man, even if he is good. No one should open all your contents. Contents. You don't even know the word contents? She sucks her teeth and closes the window. She dances, ash falling http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Manoa University of Hawai'I Press

House of Sharing Comfort Women

Park, Ishle.
Manoa , Volume 13 (2) – Oct 1, 2001
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Publisher
University of Hawai'I Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2001 University of Hawai'i Press.
ISSN
1527-943x
Publisher site
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Abstract

I S H L E P A R K Cards are worn smooth from playing, 5 for luck, 5 for fortune. She drank from pots filled with rice wine, pulled quilt over mouth to cover her smell, listened to Nam Insoo through blanket, stack of songbooks piled by the foot of her yoh. I can forget everything when I sing, when the blood is burnt up. She thinks people without children should be cremated. 3 pine trees. my parents thought they sent me to a good place. my hands like rubber gloves. my heart bleeding. I was 14. Stones in the small village painted with temples and faces. Flash flood melts the road into a river. She danced like this, hands flicking, hip jut, shoulder slant, wrinkles filling her eyes. She cooks white corn over a portable stove, wipes the stain of red pepper from the concrete windowsill, thin tissue shredding in her fingers. At the sill, she tells us to keep secrets from your man, even if he is good. No one should open all your contents. Contents. You don't even know the word contents? She sucks her teeth and closes the window. She dances, ash falling

Journal

Manoa – University of Hawai'I Press

Published: Oct 1, 2001

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