Korean History

My lover says that they’ll give me 380 words before saying goodbye forever, and it’s
380 words because she’s going to be dragged back North across the border and I’ll have to be
separated to the South;

she checks her watch and tells me that I have 333 words left, so I grab a white brush
and dip it into ink, and I slowly write in traditional Chinese letters a poem from a Korean scholar
whom she likes very much, who wrote the poem during the colonial period, on her linen shirt
and then tell her of the time she was with me

when my uncle died and when he died, he died with a bullet to his innocent head
because he was wearing the color blood red which is the color of our hearts when we touched
each other’s skin, when we still had the passion and strength and courage to tell jokes to each
other.

We once went on a trip to see fields of rice and barley and we danced in the yellow
fields and it felt like a prayer, a message somewhat divine we were sending to the universe
through our bodily movements in the midst of that rainstorm and our recreation of our long-
lost childhood during which we never once saw the tip of a black gun.

I love you not only because of the small moments we spent together but also because
of the moments we didn’t spend with each other. The stars at night have never been so
bright to me, and the sound of pansori has never felt so sweet to my ears yet teary to my eyes.
Time can move so silently with you.

I have only 93 words now. Such a short time to do anything. It’s almost time to go.
She cries out as if words could last longer than a word count. Here’s an image:

Blue Han river flowing and carrying us on a wooden boat. Clear sky above us, and we
are holding hands: immortal in the moment.

Before she disappears and crosses the border, I kiss her lips, knowing that I have just
drank rice juice with her an hour ago, so she’ll think of my timeless love for her whenever she
drinks her favorite drink.