My mother was born in Seoul, South Korea
poetry by Crystal Ignatowski
My mother was born in Seoul, South Korea
but I never knew her then. Scrawny arms
and porcelain skin. Hair like a bird’s nest,
but it wasn’t a home yet, she wasn’t
a home yet.
It is Mother’s Day. We are kayaking.
The sun is hot against our flesh.
Her’s is tanning, mine is just
turning red.
I ask her if she considers herself
biracial. The question hangs
above our heads. She answers,
but I hear something different:
the story of her green fabric
slippers, her cloth doll friend,
how her mother signed her adoption
papers in red lipstick, how she signed
away her Kim.
My mother was born in Seoul, South Korea,
but I never knew her then. The tips
of our kayaks glide through the water
like needles with no thread. We are moving
but we leave no trace.
Sugar Baby
poetry by Crystal Ignatowski
Sugar Baby
Tacoma was never good
to me, but I was never
good to it. I should have been
in California or Alaska or
New York. Instead, I was in
the house of a stranger, bare
feet on his carpeted stairs, fresh
lemon squeezed in my hair. I was
on the landing, I was in the hall
way, I was in the bedroom,
I was in the bed. Afterwards,
the cash felt thin like paper
because it was. I always
tried to be
quiet in the street
the next morning. I would
pull my car door closed
instead of slam it, as if
a different sound
would mean a different
me. My engine would
start the sound of escape,
but there was no escape,
just gray clouds
above a sunken horizon,
over 150 days of rain
a year. I would
always be
back with gritted
teeth and a new black
dress, but the wrong eyes
were seeing it,
seeing me.
Five Years Later, I'm Commuting to a New Job in Portland
poetry by Crystal Ignatowski
CONTENT WARNING: intimate relationship violence. Please read at your own risk.
​
FiveYears Later, I'm Commuting to a New Job in Portland
I saw a man on the side of the road with long hair
in cascading curls. I thought you moved to Sweet Home.
I remember your smile: sultry sweet, but only when you
wanted to be. I remember your white tank tops ripped
at the seams. But mostly I remember your hands on my throat
and how you always carried around a knife. It stuck out your waistband
like a weed. You would come home late and lay all the guns
on the bed like they were our children. We’re all safe,
you would say, lighting up a cigarette, flicking
the ash on the duvet, now get naked. And I would do it,
part of me an animal, part of me already slaughtered.
The day I locked the doors to the house was the day
I learned to love the half of me still living.
The man on the side of the road could have been
you, but I was moving fast along the freeway.
When I whisked by, his curls flew up like a skirt caught
in the wind. They stuck to his face so I couldn’t
see him. Just his pale neck was visible
and exposed.
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Crystal Ignatowski
Crystal Ignatowski's poetry has been featured in Bullets Into Bells, Flypaper Magazine, Right Hand Pointing, and more. She lives and writes in Oregon.