Katie Kim

Self-Portrait in Missed Calls

I don’t like mess, how it untidies the world.

            My brother is prophesying again, this time on the phone
            with my mom as she stares at my ketchup threatening
            to drip from my french fries onto my white tee. In vain
            I search for any trace of grease circling his lips.

Do you know what you are doing in math?

            For the second time today, Mom calls from the kitchen
            to ask. She’s slicing watermelon as Dad slurps his earl gray.
            I can hear hell slip from her mouth. It’s still
            dark, the day still unspooling. We pretend this is breakfast.

Can you pick up kimbap & dumplings from H-Mart?

On my way home from school, I’m holding
a perfect score like a bruise sticking to my palm.
loud as a siren. It will blink until 엄마 [1] grants it
mercy. But I know she won’t even see it, only the bags I cradle.

I almost forgot: Please don’t forget a receipt.

            From one of the bags I carry home for her, the proof
            of my obedience winds to the pavement below. I stop
            at the playground bench: resting, the plastic sweating
            against my leg. The best cooks listen outside the kitchen.

Time Sensitive Reminder: Call mom.

            I lie on the bench like it might let me
            stay. Kids scream down the slide, escaping
            into the waiting arms of their mothers. I silence
            my reminders. Somewhere, my mother waits.

Voicemail from 엄마: 8:52 P.M.

            I wake alone, the kids and their mothers wound back in
            to their lives. Beside me, a stranger’s milkshake
            melts into a sticky heart. That’s when I see it, her voice
            softer than I remember. Softening with worry:

Come home, sweetie. I cooked for you. Don’t expect too much, though.

[1] Korean for “Mom.”

back to contents

prev
next