David Cho

Existential Poem no. 2

Can sound transgress

from the mouth of a crying

baby to the deaf ears

of a father’s deep slumber?

Does a physicist consider

wavelengths, its particle matter

shooting through the walls of air,

sound? Is the muted silence of

such deafness truly “dumb”?

Can a father fear the death

of his son, when that son

has not yet come into existence?

And upon that moment when a son

gazes into the face of his progenitor,

can a son fear for his father’s life,

before even understanding the meaning

of his own, like a peony’s bud

blossoming into fullness, a poem

in the mind of poet? Today

I hold the face of my son,

whose death I someday

fear will floor me,

whose wrinkled brow

bears to light

our likeness,

whose eyes direct-gaze

stare at me like my father’s,

his thinning gait

looking more like a young boy’s.

Today I hold the face of my son.

Two hands square on his cheeks,

he kisses me, lips apart

as if to suck the marrow

from my cheek,

as if to say hello,

for the first and last time.

Gravity’s Pull

Where my son will be

twenty years from now,

who can tell?

Today I watch him

at a birthday party—

sushi, California rolls,

sandwiches, and smoked salmon.

Yes, this is a party of doctors,

mostly Korean Americans—

which also means

heaping plates of sangchu, red lettuce,

beef kalbi, bulgogi, spicy pork,

the smell of kim chi

floating with the balloons,

held above the other kids,

the rented, hot-air, bouncing inflatable,

he is screaming in delight,

round the other children,

around me, my wife,

screaming with no one

around, the vibrations

of the plastic his only sight,

his breath, the hot air

pumped in, this rubber castle

pulsating smaller then larger—

all he seems to need

for company. Why in this moment

my heart swells

like one engorged helium sphere

I see rising against gravity’s pull,

yet tethered to the chair,

this sunken feeling

of another balloon floating away,

nearly, but not quite.

Lullaby

Today the desire to sing

some song to my son

strikes me,

forcing me to consider

songs that my father

had uttered to me

as a young boy—

trying forever to grow

and catch this figure

of a man

who is walking down

the street so far away

a shadowy man-form—

an outline really—

wondering is this my father?

or some stranger

of similar stock

squared shoulders and legs.

Today I consider the question

of whether to sing

to my son,

remind him of my own stocky body,

the flesh-form, in part,

of his own blood and form,

and remember that

the only song my father

ever sang to me

was his whistle—

a deep draw of air,

let loose

through his grooved tongue

on teeth, his cheeks puffing

into his dimples and jawline,

then out, like note sounds

from a young boy on a recorder,

a young boy blowing

through a blade of grass,

a tired melody that brings joy

to his son, the upturned

angles of his face, curving into

a weary half-smile,

as if to say,

chama—“endure . . . hold on”—

that same smile I see on my son

who looks at me

through the square frame

of a photo

on my desk.