Kkachi Over the Horizon by Michelle Park

The sunrise is a kkachi’s cue

to lay itself on a branch, sedentary

until sunlight shatters the thick

glass of ocean. Black and white gradient

on the structure of its body, its wings

molded like deep turquoise patchworks

on a canvas, creasing until it unlocks

like a bow and arrow, fluttering across

the sky. As a child, umma learned

that the burr of a kkachi was a sign

of luck within your grasp - clutch

it before it departs. She remembers

twenty three years ago,

on a greyed morning so humid

as if she had been drenched in water,

with the heel of her foot barely clutching

onto her stilettos, umma had missed

the first bus to Yeoui-do, to her work.

Her hair was split like razor grass,

sleep still prevalent in her eyes.

She had lost her job. She thought

about her mother’s overdue

hospital bills, and the next morning

a sapphire kkachi burring as it settled

onto a pine tree beside her, and later

she’d get a new job at a local school.

Every new year, she says, she sees

a flock of it - over the horizon of the sun,

gliding through the crest of trees, landing

on the persimmon tree beside

haraboji’s hanok, its shadow

expanding against the door.

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Michelle Park is a 15 year old sophomore currently living in the Philippines. Many of her poems are about nature and memories from her childhood. She loves to eat food, and during her free time, she enjoys playing soccer, dancing, and listening to music. Her works have been published or are forthcoming in The Weight Journal, The Rising Phoenix Press, One Art Poetry, and many more.