Grandmother
Last night, in my dream
you came to me in this foreign city
adorned like a modern lady;
in heels, dressed in a lavender suit
your hair combed back neatly into a small bun
your cheeks lightly rouged
looking tall and elegant.
I didn’t think you ever wanted to shed
your mournful white hanbok
which you wore like a second layer of your skin.
Nor had I ever thought that you would crave to see the world outside
beyond the hills of our old village
the family compound, under that moss-covered tiled roof.
We dined at the French restaurant
mingled in with theatergoers
the neon-light shimmering midnight streets, we strolled
hand in hand, like sisters, laughing, feeling carefree.
How I had missed you all these years!
You left your body, but not your care:
In my dark hours of need, you knew I would
reach deep into the furrows of my bones
for the memory of your wrinkled hand
the groove of those hardened knuckles—the touch of your hand
that used to cure my childhood ailments—
and the rhythmic chanting of yours, “my hand is medicinal hand.”
And for yourself, you cared nothing, always.
Sekyo Nam Haines immigrated from South Korea to the U.S. in 1973. Her first book, Bitter Seasons’ Whip: The Translated Poems of Lee Yuk Sa, was published by Tolsun Books (2022). Her poems and translations have appeared in Lily Poetry Review, Off the Coast, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Anomaly, and Guernica.