A poem for a new arrival on this planet.

By Megan Kim

For Oliver Sun Kim

Like a bear in winter you were born
into sealed caves of solitude.

What is it like to open your eyes to white walls,
then to fight it with purity, with force

that will not be replicated beyond
those first screaming seconds? And then

to forget. A cub in the dark, you know only a world
in hibernation. When I am overwhelmed

by the complexities of the age, by injustice
and fear, your face pale and round as the moon

eclipses the haze. It illuminates. Look, I am still
young. I am shouting in the streets. I am teaching myself

to make kimchi. I have not met you but I know you
will follow. One day I will pass you a dish

across the table, tell you about how I crushed garlic
and salted cabbage when you could not yet walk,

how I marched miles through the city in the heat,
helicopters overhead. How I learned to write 조카

for you, in a language lost to me. Not because
I am your aunt but because words can tether us.

Because you carry my grandfather’s name.
Because who can endure it alone.

I will watch as you emerge in spring
with claws. I will hold out my hand.

Photo by Chiến Phạm on Unsplash

Megan Kim is a multiracial poet from Southern Oregon, currently earning her BA in creative writing and philosophy at Wheaton College, IL. Her work has appeared on the NEA's website and in the AAWW's The Margins. She serves as poetry editor and blog manager for The Pub, Wheaton's independent academic journal. Follow her on Instagram.