At night I am haunted by a ghost,
a gwishin in linen funeral hanbok
black hair tasseled in front of pale face.
She weeps because I do not remember her.
Her chili pepper lips smell like mugunghwa
Rose of Sharon, magenta hibiscus.
Ink loops for irises of hangeul ahs or ngs,
depending on its place in the syllable.
Ceramic hands sticky with soy sauce
marinade dribbling dirt brown on her skirt.
She guards my American mattress. A locust
infesting my dreams with rice fields and
celadon toil so I do not forget that I am
stitched with blood to her people.
Ashley Kim is a Korean-American writer located in California. She is a student at the University of California, Los Angeles, majoring in Cognitive Science and minoring in Asian American Studies. She has been published in Short Vine Journal and has forthcoming work in Westwind Literary Magazine. Her writing is rooted in an introspective exploration of her unique, sensory-based perception of the world. Find her on Twitter @ashlogophile. Soli deo gloria!