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제22회 워싱턴문학 신인문학상 시부문 - 송진아

Author
문학
Date
2017-07-10 21:35
Views
5457

My Old House/ 송진아

 

Father is a money machine. That he sends

money overseas doesn’t solve my queries

about mother: why she sleeps

like a crouching cat,

why she ages, her body becoming

a globe, though smaller each year,

why she insists on sharing

food or a cup of soda at a restaurant

in the country of individualism.

With her legs and backs curled up

leaning against the bottom of the sofa,

and her bent knees under her chest,

she gazes somewhere,

her eyes full of arithmetic. “22,000, 25,000…”

 

Don’t worry, mother, it’s almost dinnertime.

Sunset invades the living room,

your black hair

now unanticipated grey.

The phone rings—

you ask me how much I’d say we need.

Before I catch you

who've already turned into

a complete globe, you roll away

from the call, I’m stuck in between,

both arms stretching out to neither side

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