Sung Y. Yi

Hiding over the hill
From the dusk
She waits awkwardly

Because of the memory
Of her step-mother's negligence
Even the touch of the chill air
Makes the last moon's eyes wet

Looking for her father
Who might be at the seedy bar
Beyond the mountain-side
Till dawn,

At last,
She crosses over the empty field
With her white clothes
Starched to cut the skin
If touched