2 Feb/Returning to Korea

I hate that you’re dead.

I hate it most here

in Korea where men

who are not you

sometimes wear your

trademark flat cap.

I hate that you’re dead.
I’d hate it anywhere. I

hated it in New Zealand

sitting between your

parents at the dinner table,

having just said grace.

I hate that you weren’t

there. But more than that,

I hate that you’re not here

in Korea upon my return. 

The brown grasses and

muted grey skies of

winters past didn’t used to

seem so bleak. I hate that

you’re not here.

There is a photograph of

you and I gently kissing.

Our arms are touching as

though we’d carefully

considered their placement.

Our lips had found each other

just before the camera winked.

The canvas behind us had

been stripped bare for winter;

green hills now the color of wheat,
tiny trees like upturned claws,

and all I remember is your arm

on my arm. The warmth of your

lips. The grey leather Converse

high-top shoes on your feet.

And the fact that just before

you kissed me, I had told you

that you smelled like Christmas.