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    • Issue 16 - Entropy
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    • Issue 12 - Retrospect
    • Issue 11 - Hunger
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POETRY
Yejin Suh, Jeffrey Liao, Michelle Hsia, Ana Chen, Anonymous
Yeoboseyo
Yejin Suh
​

A man I didn’t know once said to me: Yeoboseyo, which means, Hello? 
Are you there? It means the silence across a phone, it means 

inverted closeness. Yeoboseyo, Are you impressed 
I know words in your language? He said, What are you?

What are you?
 

I. TO HARBINGERS OF A SLANTED HATE.

A single word can topple worlds, you know. I said yeah, 
I’m impressed. I didn’t want to contribute to the demolition 

of a society, to kudzu vines asphyxiating the local Sears, 
roadkill venison strung up billboards to rinse my palms 

crimson. And an ocean retreated. I was going to be sick of this 
talk my tides roiling my words razed by your filthy lips, the 

pinnacle of my existence pinned in your crosshairs of cultural 
disparity. Don’t speak yeoboseyo, don’t ask me what I am, we 

just met and we’re not friends. Am I being rude? Am I being rude 
or am I imagining your gut blowing sea spray across your simpering 

sails, across your potbelly thrust forward, a faithful heathen, 
between cross-hatchings of the speckles at your unshaven face your 

dirty face your dirty lips don’t speak yeoboseyo. It means, Hello? 
Are you there? I am not here, not for you nor me, nor the thousand 

voices writhing up my throat, my ancestors haunting the tilt 
of my brow, a glacial slope. To gift you my name one too many times 

for you to listen with anything but the deliberate recklessness of one who 
chooses to still forget. You refuse to master the delicacy of an empire 

with your clumsy tongue. Kingdoms capsize at your carelessness. I’m 
a foreigner and you’re loud like a foreigner. Ask me menial questions 

like yeoboseyo? Illusory intimacy with a universe you have 
never galloped drives our distance farthest.


II. TO BANDITS WHO NESTLE BETWEEN MY MONOLIDS.

Wear your dreads. Your bindi. Your Native headdress. Call yourself 
a ‘koreaboo’: you like ‘k-pop,’ ‘k-dramas’, ‘k-beauty’, the epitome 

of entire cultures boiled and compressed to these neat quadrangled packages 
to take home like pre-packed lunch boxes, except you always zip them open 

and toss out folded eyes, ill-lit hair, shadowed skins. You clear out 
every shop in town, picking and choosing. We’re always left sifting 

through the discards to wonder why some things are trashed 
but others aren’t. We’re waiting quietly in line until our races are 

in fashion again (blacks, browns heading the queue). Make me 
titter at department store windows, loitering for a glimpse of the latest 

display: I want to see a second skin hung up, staring back at me
with tilted eyes. We’re k-trending right now. Clever, eclectic thief.


III. TO AN ECHO OF A LANGUAGE IN STILL WATER.

There is a language of two arms dancing in tandem. There is a language 
of our mouths parting in frostbitten rings, concentric circles rippling 

peace. There is a language of peace and a language of romance. You can 
speak neither or both and a language is only understandable to some, else 

the world might hear. There is a language of the sweat off our backs 
dripping in trails, entrails of insides strewn across floors, because we speak 

in the pain. There is a language for me, not really for you, a language I listen to 
when it speaks back to me. For you’ve never straddled the cosmic belt 

between a language to speak and one to hear, a language through which 
I’ve lost centuries. My mother says she pities me in the motherland 

because they wouldn’t take me as their own: I belong not to the mother tongue 
but to the spangled banners. There is a language noisy sounding, brawling, 

reminiscent of German that is the language I have learned like a roughened 
lover. I’ve brushed with my thumbs where his hips slope to thigh, and the 

nook between jaw and collar. He slammed my head against the wall 
and embraced me in a lock and key I knew I might never fit again (The 

Germans have a word   dasein   for the paradox of   being   like my mere 
state a pull between two hands that stretch). She says they wouldn’t 

take me as their own and neither would the Americans. The children of 
immigrants rise a new tsunami and these children know the feeling of 

swallowing a tide of shame at their mothers’ broken English. These 
children know to act the reluctant mediator, because when a mother 

speaks broken English and the child knows it like a lover the mother 
becomes fragments and child becomes same, like switching 

bodies except both are devoid of crucial parts like vessels without 
blood and brain. These children want to hear the pin-drop 

in a cave that roars stillness to hear the echo of an echo. To look 
around, unmoving, in a city swarm, to seize a semblance of knowing, to

say I belong here, with you, with you all, not anywhere else, here, 
where any link that snaps homogeneity is an outsider, and I am not. To say, 

I belong here, is a travesty. To the shade of your skin or the slant of my 
eyes. I wonder what it would be like to write a poem such as this, a long 

and lengthy poem, of curious words and stacked phrases, a poem of worlds 
and small rivers, to show it to my mother to know she can understand every word 

and nothing less. I wouldn’t know. Not in this lifetime. Maybe in another, 
we’ll dismantle the walls that encircle us. There is a language of demolition, too.



IV. TO A ZEPHYR WHO WHISTLES FAINTER ON THE YELLOW SEA.

Eyes, Junoesque stars tittering, like she knew I was one of them--
I was one of them--

I am one of them--
Of the galaxies that pervade us, not us, just me—To look inside out intimately and suddenly--

Once again strangers in a city—words crisped to nothings on my teeth--
I marveled myself, a wind borne of two nations, blowing eternal in neither.

Mourning Song
Jeffrey Liao


​In the mornings, my grandmother is a tired shadow hunched against the pane
of her bedroom window. She cups my cheeks, smooth as a boy’s, in her
 
weathered palms – lined like the mud-slabbed banks of the Yangtze, where a thousand bloody
footsteps linger – and searches for warmth in my soft face, so similar to her brother’s,
 
whose only trace of existence is a dusty photograph in the attic, where all the junk lies.
I’ve memorized the kerosene in her eyes, twin flames reeking of ashes and formaldehyde,
 
the burnt fragments of a family fractured, a village plundered, a country fallen.
Before bed, my grandmother rubs the silk fibers of her flowing cerulean dress,
 
the same dress she wore on lazy summer afternoons roaming barefoot with her brother
over warm yellow grass. It’s become a daily ritual: my grandmother sitting in the porch rocking chair
 
when the air is swollen with silence, her tiny frame silhouetted by the first orange light of dawn,
the world holding its breath like the pause before thunder. I imagine her now –
 
bringing her weary fingers over the fabric that billows like an ocean in her lap, her hands reaching for
the distant memory of her brother’s laughter, rushing over river rocks like birdsong,
 
the now foreign sound.

and then it rained
Michelle Hsia
​

​Worn out ring of imprint, kissing a double decker lipstick stain
on mahogany wood where
The sentimental whisper outside the door
Played too loud to ignore
Bonsoir, the trees whispered
To my pomegranate shaped glass
And there hung
Dripped
Red sweat like rapid fire staccato
Onto a carpet that lay like a bed of snow - oh no
 
How loud did past meet present
Predicate predicate predicate
As windows spun too fast for us to see
You smiled sadly
As I strained to reach the chandelier
One arm outstretched
To hold you
To press you
Between the pages of the dictionary on the second shelf
I’ll find you somewhere beside “hymn”, somewhere beyond “anticipation”
Kept safe
Among weed and wildflower

2.1
Ana Chen

​
the little deaths, too: paper pins. sacred glass. snail shells.
​
silence ferments into the sinister as
i strip the wings from your chest. at least
this is how the dream goes, clutched tight to bitter awakenings, held ungentle
to the desperate. a heaving sickness, viscera marinating
into woman. growing pains 
at the hands of the stillborn, the steadfast - this breed of loyalty 
bitten hard & proud between tongues. 
​
with a slight shpeck the glue comes lose. i pinch the feathers, unsure
of how best to dispose them. you choose: trash, compost, a fire in the woods, a sharp swift death
like a baby bird? i 
do not remember. my head pulsates, an orange in heat - peels stick sweatlike
to a matted mane. men sing drunkendly in the skies
from which you fell, so i holler back, bellow a defiance that boomerangs
soft and sickly, mashed like eggs or sweet potatoes in my fingers.
friday morning, mama
pulls you and me from school. the therapist
is a kind woman. & i want nothing more than to dismember her: clipboard
by clipboard, yellow sheets & skin. gears & glasses caught in slo-mo frames,
tell me there is something left. 
​

the unoriginal. the crusading. the crucifixed. these men, i tell you. their skulls will crush sullen
beneath our breaths. you scorn me. january is a late fledgling, a reluctant shiver
in crossed arms - in winter, these hills 
are so much harder to climb. 
​
once when we were little we
trapped a snail, watched it through a glass bowl
until it shriveled & died. for days afterwards you
prodded it, snapped its shell like
the neck of a chicken, & cried. that was
the first time i hated you, your pudginess, the way only you
could drown so slowly, mired waist-deep
in your youthful lethality. but why did it
go?
you kept wailing. we loved it
so much, we loved it
so much.

no martyrs
Anonymous


barter. and


there is something in the night. snowman 
decorations, your skin seamless
and frosty. and dead. morning glittering in

the shuffle of slippers, in lights so bright they
hollow out half
my face. 


lathered in you, there is always a
bubble of cold beneath the sheets, one
i’m too scared to pop. by that i mean, you

should be afraid. by that i mean,
loneliness does not need
​a martyr. there are things

you shouldn’t breach, and my palms

are one of them.
Editor's Statement
Stories
Arts


​​​Issue 15 - Allure

​
Copyright © 2020 by It's Real Magazine. ​All Rights Reserved.
ISSN 2688-8335, United States Library of Congress.
publ. Bellevue, Washington.
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