JS Choi
Underwater City
I play the piano underwater.
A transparent soul flows from my body,
blending light and darkness,
playing a city that ripples gently.
Turning the page of the score,
my hand cuts through the waves,
a drop of blood floats through buildings on the verge of collapsing.
This city, like ice born to melt,
was built to crumble.
The walls, cracked by gray noise,
and buildings encrusted with seaweed,
sway like a forest submerged in darkness.
Climbing the stairs,
I see the faces of people submerged in water,
their expressions floating like words.
Their song hides in places no one seeks,
while I pull up the wreckage of sunken buildings,
and the deep brings me scars that quietly approach.
Blocking my ears,
a silent scream rises like bubbles,
waking me from sleep.
On the island where the sunset blooms,
I sit, letting the current carry me.
When I dip my feet into the city's depths,
the faces of my past, submerged, tremble.
A stone thrown from the surface creates ripples,
and anxiety spreads like concentric circles.
Broken glass, like things we cannot return,
one careless word topples a fragile world.
In a moment, pain surges back,
and tears begin to fall.
A small fish, like a drop of blood,
wanders through the crumbled city.
As I toss and turn in sleep,
unsettling fish swim through my dreams,
their thin fins flicking the water.
clover
the cat stiffens, ribs exposed.
the breath pooled in a red puddle is scattered, crushed by wheels.
a procession of wind’s tribute stretches over the asphalt.
what shape does the world take through the small, squinting eyes?
without knowing, i walk quietly,
scratching the air with my nails.
from my pocket, i pull out an old clover.
i don’t remember how many leaves it had.
can a clover still be a clover, even when only the stem remains?
i imagine setting fire to myself.
today, i learned karma, played a nocturne,
wrote a short confession on my blog, took fever medicine.
an unfamiliar face appeared in a magazine,
i saw a nineteen-year-old lying in the field.
a cat, lying like an abandoned bouquet.
if the last image in its tiny pupils had been my silhouette,
i would never have stepped onto the road.
behind me, clover always bloomed in clusters,
even as i turned away, i left my shadow there.
sometimes i dreamed of fleeing, crushed by green.
swallowing back my halted breath was an unpleasant thing.
i must write a poem about the feelings of a corpse.
the corpse is clover, the emotions in andante.
my forehead keeps exhaling warmth.
if anyone knows how to filter memories,
please hurry & write me a letter.
this is the last will of the clover i miss.
