HETEROTOPIA

by Ella Kim

at H Mart:

get a haircut and dumplings,

galbi, tteok for the New Year.

take a break where they know you and explain yourself later.

here your children play on AstroTurf while you close your eyes and breathe

browse for rice, that ritual heft of sack into shopping cart—

you might as well be bowing,

Body and Blood of your body and blood,

our bloody bodies and American dreams.

and at checkout hope the ladies recognize you

(or at least something in your eyes) because

oh god, you've missed it, pride,

you want to promise them you're trying hard enough.

we knew shame long before we learned the word—

we were born crouched beneath the n, between the hollow os, of honor,

we hummed promises across the ocean but slept with the fan on.

now we watch the live lobsters in their tank and startle at our reflections.

why are you here? i want to ask the grandmothers,

why are you here in a yellow vest and KN95, even now, and why can't i speak to you?

where can i go because of you?

(where, besides here?)

you look like every woman i have ever known and smell of Sunday nights

you are a model minority but in Aisle 12 you are somebody's daughter

in Aisle 12 you are barely an expert and everything is in your bones.

you are what you eat,

so eat Korean food

at the food court with the metal chairs and metal trays and honor my grandmother, who collects metal teaspoons from all over the world.

no one cooks like Halmeoni

(on Tuesdays the H Mart food tastes vaguely metallic)

—no one cooks like she does,

loyal to her mother’s vague recipes flesh memories

but we try we try we try

we emerge from H Mart and blink in the Texas sun

and wrestle two full shopping carts home.