The past draws back

into the ribboned neckline of the city,

the little black dress of Seoul nighttime.

Hawkers offer bamboo steamer baskets,

lanterns to carve up the dark. Syllables of the language

I misplaced nine years ago. Grandmother

steps out of a eulogy, twenty-two years old,

and takes me to dance. The city corsages my wrists,

adores me for one second more, for one dance

more. When the clock strikes midnight,

downtown dresses up in teething neon.

Every shadow turns into a woman

selling her wares, heirloom bodies

in exchange for coin. I was told Grandmother

ghosted herself in pieces; the pearl-round cheek

and the bend of a shoulder and then

the convergence of her legs. Every night, she let the buyers

roam unshaven sidewalks, prowl through her skin

until the smashed fruit of dawn

came spilling across their beds. There are things we do

to survive. Still, tonight, Grandmother buys me

a lantern to launch into the sky

where the stars drip electric halos, each one

a moon shot out of orbit. For your wishes, she says.

Her dress waterfalls like a monsoon. Tonight,

​​her face is smoother than cloth, and lighter, too.