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.
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.