워싱턴문학 신인문학상 당선작
워싱턴 문학 신인문학상 당선작
제22회 워싱턴문학 신인문학상 시부문 - 송진아
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