Michigan Winter, 1983
By Joan Kwon Glass
That winter survival required more of us than it ever had.
We gave up hoping dad would stay. What light remained in mom’s eyes
was for Jesus. So we gave up on light too.
Instead, we turned to each other. In Michigan’s winter of ‘83 me
and my baby sister became fawns. We built blanket forts beneath
the dining table, crawled around in floor-length pink nightgowns,
our hair damp, dark and snow-wild. The chandelier glowed
like a warning, like a fanged, forest blood moon through
our burgundy sky-blanket. The soles of our feet and whites
of our teeth shone as we knelt in the safety we’d made,
pretending to feast on whatever the forest produced, sharing the bounty.
I heard the sound before I felt it hit me. A bell struck.
The Ivory vase that held up our forest sky had fallen.
A sense in my animal body that danger had found me.
Then pain, above my right eye that made me remember my legs,
concede with sadness and relief that I was still human.
That somewhere, I had a mother. I wandered into the bathroom
and in the mirror saw blood seeping from a swollen stone.
Behind me, my sister stood frozen, pointing over my shoulder
and staring wide-eyed, in horror at our reflections.
It was only then, as the wound trickled down my soft nose,
and across my lips, and I licked away my own blood,
that I saw: we had begun to grow horns
Joan Kwon Glass is a biracial Korean American who grew up in Seoul, South Korea and in Michigan. She lives near New Haven, CT where she teaches and writes. Her poems have recently been published or are upcoming in Rust & Moth, Rattle, SWWIM, Rogue Agent, South Florida Poetry Journal, Persephone’s Daughters, West Trestle Review, Mantle Poetry Journal, Wondrous Real and others. Her poem “Cartouche” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She tweets @joanpglass, and you may read her previously published work at www.joankwonglass.com.