After reading Li Young Lee’s “Persimmons”, the professor turned to me as if I had something interesting to say.   But this was all I knew: I once asked my father if persimmons originated in China. Those Chinese don’t see persimmons the way we Koreans do.   I mean, what can I say of precision? What can I say of persimmons? Precision was what my father demanded, even when cutting persimmons, his words sharper than the knife in my hand. But the knife a...

We once sat here—do you remember?— in silence that was neither awkward nor meaningful— silence was all we had left— and the children were running, and the parents standing, cross-armed, and the sky looked as if it was patched up everywhere I thought it amazing, the deftness with which the horde of children avoided trees and people, the wisdom with which they knew to pull and be pulled— I later deduced the secret: You have to run fast enough to create tension, t...

Great Expectations They say it rains because clouds become too heavy So I go out back tell my father how heavy the cloud looks. Yes, it does, he says, his gaze fixed on his apple tree. The apples are heavy with sweetness, hanging on by their umbilical cords. Can we pick them? I ask. No. They’re not ready yet, he says. Years pass. I graduate from high school as valedictorian. Life presents itself to me the way it always has. What are you going to do? he asks. I don’t know, I say....

Alleviation We once sat here—do you remember?— In silence that was neither awkward nor meaningful— Silence was all we had left— And the children were running, And the parents standing, cross-armed, And the sky looked as if It was patched with a hundred different emblems. I thought it amazing, The deftness with which the horde of children avoided trees And people The wisdom with which they knew to pull and be pulled, I, when it was too late, deduced the secret: You ha...

I was chosen to be the bearer of incredible amounts of sadness, of fruit swelling with the bittersweet. In the backyard garden my father tends to his trees— lemon, orange, apple, peach, persimmon. “Feed the trees sugar, and they will bear sweet fruit,” he says. All I remember from childhood are those Sunday afternoons resting my head on my mother’s lap after church, her hands cool like autumn; those days on the beach, worrying whether I could build the moat in time to save my dream castle fro...

Prometheus I gave you the ability to burn bridges completely aware of the consequences, but, under the calculated assumption that remaining still was effortless. I mean, after all, it was supposed to be a fundamental law of physics: all things remain still unless otherwise beckoned. I had imagined the weight of time to be as light as the weight of your head leaning against my shoulder, but instead it turned out heavier than Sisyphus’ burden. I just wanted to stop the bleeding. Pushing time fo...

We are caught in between acts, we tightrope walkers trembling on the fine line between night and day, unable to finish, the world ceasing to care Somewhere along the line the spotlight had slipped off unnoticed, had faded into the fog as all Berkeley solstices do I was so sure fall had arrived It was unmistakable. My hands were raw from the burn of the chilled coastal mist and from pounding out a carnal cadence on your door at some godforsaken hour But you rose and touched me as if it was sti...

After reading Li Young Lee’s “Persimmons”, the professor turned to me as if I had something interesting to say. But this was all I knew: I once asked my father if persimmons originated in China. Those Chinese don’t see persimmons the way we Koreans do. I mean, what can I say of precision? What can I say of persimmons? Precision was what my father demanded, even when cutting persimmons, his words sharper than the knife in my hand. But the knife always trembled into the fruit, the resulting zig...

I was chosen to be the bearer of incredible amounts of sadness, of fruit swelling with the bittersweet. In the backyard garden my father tends to his trees— lemon, orange, apple, peach, persimmon. “Feed the trees sugar, and they will bear sweet fruit,” he says. All I remember from childhood are those Sunday afternoons resting my head on my mother’s lap after church, her hands cool like autumn; those days on the beach, worrying whether I could build the moat in time to save my dream castle fro...

Lighthouse It is half-past bedtime, and her eyes are floating away on the tides of her chest and I put my ears to her breast as if listening to the secrets of a seashell. She is dreaming of past storms, storms so frightful that they scared her father away, of the crashing, salty waves, that jumped up on the rocks, flailing their arms like demons from the depths and pulling at her ankles, dragging her into the dead of the ocean. that first night at the beach, I had assured her that the world w...