I’ve been getting to know the work of poet Annie Kim. Here’s part of her poem “Post-Colonial Album: 1980” from Into the Cyclorama:


raw fish bleeding through a pile of newspapers


a skinny road with no shoulders


plane trees, fresh tar and stale bus diesel, men

riding bicycles in white cotton masks, though not


necessarily in that order


stick of rice cake burnt on one side, the frayed gloves

handing it to me red, then I’m peeling back the foil


the ice beneath the snow is yellow

hard like an ancient scab


we sing carols on the dark drive home, we have


the only car in the neighborhood, a garden and a gate

that locks us in, there is no


natural order to recollecting this


see these sunlit windowpanes

I stare out this morning, how miraculously they fit


side by side



I also love this little gem from “A Rag For My Father”:


A father is a kind of trap

you could easily fall for.

A father is a type of map

you stupidly search for.