a poem: my personal gravity well

(written just after I decided to leave Korea)

I sit in bed and type.
Typing is different than writing.
And I don’t write much.
Mostly planning.
Making words pretty.
Like that will make them more
Real.
Make my lists fancy.
And they will get done.
Make my dreams sparkle.
And they will come true.
I add a sticker
Here
And
There, just there.
It means I am trying to
Put my mark on it.
Make it, bend it into
Reality.
But reality bends us.
Right?
Or do we bend it when we move?
When we dream, do the stars tremble
In their courses?

Dreaming must be dangerous then
To move galaxies and bend solar systems
Into our own making.
We move, we bend time and space,
And the universe heaves
Infinitesimally.
But it moves. Every breath a great
Wind birthed.
Every flutter of fingers
A small gravity ripple.
Making waves in our own personal
Systems.
What manner of magic is that?

What manner of creature am I
To sit in bed and type,
When soon I am planning
To quit my job.
Leave this country.
And go home.
Because my body is breaking.
And I don’t know how to fix it.
How to fix my cage.
The bird inside is fine,
Thanks very much.
It’s just this shabby old
Ill-treated cage rusting and falling apart.
Squawking in the night.
Hinges snapping.
The caged bird sings.
Angry.
Defiant.
Raging against the cage that breaks.
Wishing others could see inside the cage.
But they only see
The breaks.

-a.e

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