by Walter K. Lew

    We have to bury the urns，

    Mother and I. We tried to leave them in a back room，

    Decoyed by a gas lamp， and run out

    But they landed behind us here， at the front gate.

    It is 6th hour， early winter， black cold：

    Only， on the other side of the rice-paper doors

    The yellow ondol stone-heated floors

    Are still warm. I look out to the blue

    Lanterns along the runway， the bright airplane.

    Off the back step， Mother， disorganized

    As usual， has devised a clumsy rope and shovel

    To bury the urns. I wonder out loud how she ever became a doctor.

    Get out， she says Go to your father： he too

    Does not realize what is happening. You see，

    Father is waiting at the airfield in a discarded U. S. Army

    Overcoat. He has lost his hat， lost

    His father， and is smoking Lucky's like crazy. . .

    We grab through the tall weeds and wind

    That begin to shoot under us like river ice.

    It is snowing. We are crying， from the cold

    Or what？ It is only decades

    Later that， tapping the cold， glowing jars，

    I find they contain all that has made

    The father have dominion over hers.