Creative Writing






Surrounded by potato fields

The gate stands,

half buried by the fresh leaves

Of goose grass.




     Weathered bones

on my mind,

     a wind-pierced body.





the sound of a bell

     as it leaves the bell.




     Insects on a bough

floating downriver,

     still singing.






Eating Together

Li-Young Lee, from Rose.

In the steamer is the trout  

seasoned with slivers of ginger,

two sprigs of green onion, and sesame oil.  

We shall eat it with rice for lunch,  

brothers, sister, my mother who will   

taste the sweetest meat of the head,  

holding it between her fingers  

deftly, the way my father did  

weeks ago. Then he lay down  

to sleep like a snow-covered road  

winding through pines older than him,  

without any travelers, and lonely for no one.