Cleave

MOON YEONG SHIN

Written on the white slip at the bottom
of a polariod, cut off by the frame:
a name. Many years passed before I learned
surnames come first in Korea. I rode
my bicycle in circles around this reversal.
For years, my skin leaped from shadow to shadow.
I drank the darkness, or the darkness drank me,
but what's the difference when your veins are full
of haunting? One day I will walk
the narrow streets of many cities full of ice
freshly frozen. I will hike through forests
of wind storms newly risen. I will learn
and forget the names of many trees,
of tea leaves plucked too early in the season.
I will orbit the earth like a moon
searching for its shadow. Where does a moon
find its planet? Or is it the other way
around? To be a recently hatched egg-moon,
curved shell pinned to the sky. I've spent my whole
life in orbit of other people's light, celestial satellite
in ceaseless wane. How much can you learn
from a stranger's surname? A young animal
crawls its way out of the womb, stretches its legs,
and feels cold for the first time.