Book Read Free

Angel & Hannah

Page 3

by Ishle Yi Park


  her father took in, plus all his friends & neighbors (still alive)

  arrive until his house swells, from eight to twelve to fifty.

  His lovely wife dies of stress, claustrophobia, war, & poverty.

  Hannah’s mother runs from orphanhood, from a colonized country,

  to escape chaos, grief, & molotov cocktails, to create

  a new life, free of conflict, vicious spirals, struggles, & strife.

  It goes deep, kid. She could be running

  from the violence her father carried from that war too, into

  his body, into his home, buried

  rage from leaving a country stolen &

  conquered & raped & pillaged by

  the Japanese and then Americans, fake friends

  who took & took & used the same old divide

  & conquer formula to occupy one half

  of their divided country for more than half a century. What pride

  can one truly carry when one is country — less?

  All these Korean Americans, cut in half, divided inside, then hyphened —!

  surviving, trying to thrive in the land of the colonizer ~ sigh ~

  Bob Marley say, You’re running & you’re running

  & you’re running away, but you can’t run away from yourself…

  She’s running from a broken home,

  running from her broken home-land,

  her cold orphan mother & her divided mother ~ land,

  cut into two sides by Russia and Amerikkka, and

  she’s running into the arms of the first man-child

  who’s ever felt like Home,

  who makes her soul feel less alone,

  good to smell & warm to hold.

  She’s running from her parents, who are mute,

  who suffered so much they refuse to speak about Why ~

  (but that simply creates another Divide

  that I bridge for You, dear Reader, but imagine

  how lost! how empty she feels inside with no stories, maps, mirrors,

  or songs to guide her in this new world).

  She Inherited a rage that lives

  like a bomb in her body —

  she inherited da stones of Han, and is spending her life unloading them

  from her bowl, to become Light enough to take flight and disappear.

  Rice Grains (Halmoni)

  Aigu, gunyun bah. She’s a disgrace —

  a shame to the whole Shin family.

  Look at her, kissing that black boy,

  black as burnt rice. Look!

  I want to scratch out my mound grave,

  cross ocean, slap her cheek,

  make her kneel on a bed of rice grains.

  Whip her calves with a pine switch

  until she bleeds bloodseeds.

  Daughter of my firstborn son, born

  on foreign land, can’t even hold

  my words in her mouth without spilling

  them like wellwater…

  she needs a living halmoni to slap her sane,

  make her respect her family name.

  7th Period (Hannah)

  I wait like a tiger lily in an overrun

  garden, trying hard to be hidden

  yet dazzling, fixing my burnt, frayed

  hair. Late, he saunters over,

  sharp as a grass-blade. When I lean

  against him, a stiff bulge in his Polo

  jeans turns me dew-moist. I learn

  too late it’s not his heat, but a silver .380

  he uses to kill stop signs with a hunter’s

  flair in weeded corners of Queens. A peek

  of silver-blue, he puts my hand there.

  Hard. My girls stare. God, I long

  to glint. Cock the trigger,

  game for anything.

  Private Dancer

  The door’s locked. Put it on, she dares,

  flings her Guess denim-lycra dress

  at his feet. He sucks his teeth, nah. She caresses

  his earlobe. Please. He huffs…straps off buckles. She

  stares as he struts from dresser to bed with a bony hip-jut,

  arm extended like a thin brushstroke of tree.

  He bats foxy lashes to throw shadows over his cheek-

  bones, puckers lips, runs his rough

  palms over her décolletage, then strips

  further. To her cherry-red negligee. Totters in fake heels,

  flings an invisible boa up at the ceiling. She

  laughs, imagines feathers swan-diving past her eyes as he

  skips over now. Done with fantasy, he kneels

  beside her. Hard. Naked. On his bony knees.

  One Tree

  Hannah wants to take Angel into dark woods,

  away from his bleak block with its one thin

  tree — god, one tree! Sick

  smell of needles and burnt, cooked crack.

  If she could, she’d hike him up the Catskill trails

  her mother led her through as a girl,

  so he, too, can smell sweet loam,

  let his feet find path through stone,

  leaf, root, each step Godsure…

  to stretch his wingspan wider,

  beyond the wire mesh of Hart Street’s

  metal aviary ~ Hannah daydreams

  lounging on a milk crate, as Angel

  hustles coke under the oak’s weak shade.

  Tattoo

  Ay, who could not adore such a soft-spoken sweetie?

  Left shoulder blade tattooed with a jester,

  mouth full of hilarious smut — Hey, let’s take a shower, he entreats,

  my tongue’ll be the sponge. A gum-snapping

  goddess of Lust winks over Angel’s bed, agreeing,

  Love is the funniest! She lures

  the two to locked bedrooms. Alas ~ in a few, he cheats.

  So, she cheats, and they brawl, and Angel gets locked up.

  Hannah works late shifts to pay his Rikers bail.

  Far away she hears her mother’s voice,

  forcing her awake — You can’t save a lost boy —

  her breath sounds hot & stern.

  But young lovers scar hard and take

  each other’s hearts for ransom. They appear

  so cool from afar…up close, their small hands shake.

  Graduation

  South of campus, Angel strays

  behind a mimosa tree, blurred

  like a sepia photo, a secret.

  Hannah bobs in a sea of royal-blue

  caps & gowns. Angel frowns

  down at his two-dollar bodega-rose.

  Everyone’s armed with exotic bouquets —

  calla lily, iris, tulip. Angel

  breaks a thorn off his prickly stem.

  Hannah’s handed her diploma onstage —

  his throat stirs. She smiles,

  hugs an oldwhitelady tight,

  and snaps pictures with her Kin,

  miles away from him.

  Jones Beach

  They trail behind his cousins on the shore, till Chino

  becomes one black speck, Jessie, another. Stripping sandals for fun,

  they run barefoot into ice-blue, see-through, sailboat

  water, no seaweed, dirty needles like Orchard Beach

  or Beach Ninety-eighth, Latin Kings with black-gold-black

  necklaces glinting on collarbones like silent threats to Nietas.r />
  None of that old danger — just water, up to their chests.

  They reach a point where their toes don’t touch the sand.

  Dip in and out of salt, their breath ragged now.

  The undertow yanks their thighs with her cold hand,

  grips them down, down, she panics, to death —

  Hannah gasps. Sinks. Angel grips her neck —

  throws her up and forward — Swim!

  Onshore, they choke up liquid ropes of ocean.

  Angel. Angel.

  You saved me — she admits.

  Eden (Hannah)

  with you i’m not a girl

  with small duties file

  cuticles carry groceries

  with you i unfurl

  like Eve i can kill or heal

  with my mouth and hands

  turn a bed into a lightning-

  filled tent steal

  deep inside your

  skin bloom stars

  inside till you smell

  like me

  i burn like you kin

  to our blood’s

  desire to flee from

  Eden

  Virginity

  He ooo-oohs her in DeKalb’s train

  station, takes her hand, lugs her JanSport bag

  all the way to Hart Street in Timberlands, do-rag

  tight round his forehead. Her hair, a horse’s mane

  dolled with spit curls just for him. She lies

  to her mother, says she’ll be praying at a Korean church

  retreat. Instead, she kneels before Angel for her First

  Time in a white peekaboo nightie.

  His mother, Alma, lays in the sickroom next door.

  Blue light falls over their skin in strips.

  He kisses all ten of her chipped toes. Her hip bones.

  The wooden floor begins to creak. She winces.

  Clenches her fists into yellow rosebuds, stuffs her mouth with a pillow,

  so his mother, next room over, can sleep.

  Mute, she takes her first lover.

  It has to be this way, no other.

  Summer Break

  Grains of light sift over Wyckoff

  Avenue, dusting strollers shoved

  by thick-hipped mamis with slick, gelled hair.

  Tattered triangular flags blow and click

  like sharp teeth above all heads.

  Angel struts, clasping Hannah’s fingers.

  A cool wind ripples his undershirt,

  dares to lift her skirt. Young fools with easy

  grins, they stroll loose-hipped down Hart

  Street, say wassup to boys ribboning D’s Phat Beatz, Sal’s Pizzeria.

  Young street king and queen; everyone knows

  his name: Pssst…mira Angel y la China,

  they hiss. But the two own the block —

  walk straight into a hot wind.

  I slept but my heart was awake.

  Listen! My lover is knocking.

  ~ Song of Songs

  II.

  Verano

  Summer

  For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring,

  lives churned & cut like ’copter blades whirring

  across a bleak Bushwick sky — Hannah’s disowned,

  left with only Angel’s arms for a home —

  Rafi snores between them in the cramped twin bed,

  they’re more than lovers now; they’re surrogate parents.

  Deep in Bushwick, they decide to rent a small one-bedroom,

  cook pots of arroz con pollo together and soon,

  warmth spills into their lives like a late noon sun,

  but the beauty dries out almost as soon as it’s begun,

  cuz Angel’s fam crashes at their crib, makes a mess of it,

  Hannah throws clothes, plates, hour-long bitching fits —

  they inherit the sins and vices of their folks, no heat,

  their hearts & apartment grow cold —

  they cut each other to bone / no more tenderness to bleed —

  like a hot wind, she scorches his earth and leaves —

  Split

  I’m leaving to live with Angel, Hannah says un-

  der her breath. Her father sits with fists

  clenched on the kitchen counter. He twists

  his mouth into a sad grin. Her mother waits,

  gripping doorway. She prays

  her husband won’t kill her daughter, grab wrists,

  bend them into mercy, bash his fist

  into her baby’s baby skin. He takes

  a whisk from his blue inhaler. Air is hot, un-

  bearable, thick…If you…disown me, apa, I…I

  understand. But I can’t…stop…

  loving this man. Hannah weeps. Presses

  her hand on her apa’s knee. He drops

  his head. Sobs. Why…why me?

  Moving

  She packs her dresses while her dad’s

  at work. Slams CD cases till they crack, white lightning down Mary’s face.

  Doesn’t stand & look at white

  bedroom walls, no, it’s all done in a hot rush,

  fire burning her Nikes

  to get the hell out. Fuck this house,

  she seethes. House of broken plates,

  torn hair, han, misery.

  She shoves handfuls of socks, quar-

  ters, thongs into her JanSport,

  watches the clock, calls Four Twos,

  looks back out at the quaint,

  two-story wooden houses,

  bird-filled, tree-lined streets.

  No one sees her leave.

  Grace & Grief

  (Halmoni)

  There she goes.

  Another split.

  Split nara, split family.

  Is our fate a legacy of

  grief? A history of han

  for eternity?

  My ancestral tree

  shredded like

  rice paper

  in a hard immigrant wind. Aigu.

  Wild girls —

  what mother-pain!

  She’s my penance — she’s

  me, fifty years later, still hardheaded.

  Stunning,

  headed straight for

  tragedy she thinks is Love

  or Destiny.

  But to spit her

  into the city-jungle,

  among ghosts, demons,

  thieves? No place for a

  jashikeh. Aiyu. Look how

  my son and his wife salt

  & smoke in separate

  rooms. Tombs. God, what

  is this world?

  Are we all guaranteed moments of grace

  as well as grief? Little girl-fool, I bless you

  tonight with a sorrowless

  sleep,

  but tomorrow —

  and beyond, Hannah-ya

  what you sow,

  you reap.

  Knickerbocker

  Hannah’s first day in Bushwick:

  sunstars wink on car roofs like gardenias.

  Wind flaps tabletops.

  Out every open window, Jerry Rivera croons.

  Hannah sits outside at Sal’s pizzeria.

  Her skin and the brick, warmed red.

  She watches two Latin Kings flex.

  It’s a new town, new smells. Ado
bo, saltlust.

  She’s see-through, an outline waiting to be colored in.

  Please. One moment a day —

  en paz — a light, cool wind.

  Today, no evil.

  Even El Jefe gums a tune

  as he rattles down Knickerbocker Avenue.

  Home?

  Funny. Here, in Maria’s cramped bedroom

  with its bare bulb & peeling walls, a rat

  scuttling by lil’ Juanito’s minibike, three fat kids

  plumped underneath her like pillows,

  Maria stretched out like a queen in short-shorts

  popping seedless green grapes into every

  kid’s open mouth, Tito’s laughter,

  window open to car screeches,

  slaps of Bereco’s & Angel’s domino tiles,

  clink of distant beers, an iron bar

  in Hannah’s stiff spine melts…

  she softens here, is almost home here,

  nestled in chaos,

  a fawn hidden in high grass.

  Flock

  One reason she loves living in Brooklyn

  is everyone’s kids: Alejandro, Joey, Sofia, Kayla, and lil’ Juanito

  flock to her like tough, cute, baby gray-

  gold ducklings. Angie’s youngest one is a lost starling

  adopted by the young and scrabble-beaked.

  They sing her Aaliyah songs, clamber over her shy frame,

  pluck tufts of fluff from a futon couch to decorate

  her hair with a tiara of wool and feathers.

  Hannah does her homework while da other girls sniff & smoke,

  watch old Tom & Jerry reruns & new Disney classics together,

  whirl kids like tiny planets over the living room.

  With small hands they drag her into bunk beds,

  make blanket forts & play, far from the hard-eyed titas in the kitchen.

  She feels blessed when Alejandro’s tiny feet slap like webs over linoleum. Titi!!

  He stretches baby arms towards her neck. She flies him up to kiss his brown ringlets.

  Disco

  Angel, you are hilarious,

  she giggles, spellbound, laying

 

‹ Prev