Kaylee Jeong


My name—divorced from the body—

was the only thing keeping me


from sailing. A forearm divorced

from the joint, the skin the only thing holding it


afloat. They said if you are overflowing

smother your dreams in the arms


of the mother. If you are hungry

keep it. There is always someone


hungrier—and there he is, crawling towards you

on two feet. Suffocated


by saltwater. Stitching together

two sides of an ocean


with the seam running through the front porch,

where shadowed figures rip up the hours


as a single mother frays

at their soiled fingertips. All of this


in a glass box, and the museum dark

and empty. One of us on either side,


unsewing. I think I call him

father, though I admit


I never saw his face. But I think

or would like to think he would


forgive me. If we are dislocated,

all the more reason.


He held me once. The way I remember this

is the way the ocean protested, and how


the showcase held it back. It’s true

he almost lost me. But I let him


steer my given name to safety

anyway, and when I remember him


it is to wonder where he is now.