Crone Poem

ajumma

i’ve stopped bleeding and i can’t see

standing in a rush hour train

i break into spontaneous sweats

a heat source to all my neighbors

everything is dropping rapidly

as my muscles lose their earth element

i am loosening my hold on the physical

my memory is failing me

i find white hairs in my food

i burp snore and fart and queef

like a wind instrument 

everything is looser and more vaporous 

a mix of air and ether

ap and akasha

pitta fanned into vata

i embrace my ajumma status

and after a brief pretense of politeness

i gladly accept the seat the haksaeng offers me

then pull out my sewing

surrounded by smartphones

i pull slender steel through calico

making crooked lines of tiny stitches

everyday i inch closer to my transcendent self

the wise woman i can only hope to grow into

i am the age of my mother

when katja was born

i am fascinated by my aging skin

settling into grooves 

making rivulets and tributaries

i can stretch further and deeper with discernment

brave the uncharted

be less afraid to fail

unlike the young women 

click clicking through the streets of seoul in their heels

with so much at stake

bearing december wind on stocking legs

and checking themselves out in shop windows

i have nothing to show off

nothing to prove

i don’t bleed

i can’t see

i am so beyond shame i am dangerous

i’ve only just begun