Leaving Seoul: 1953

　　by Walter K. Lew

　　 We have to bury the urns，

　　 Mother and I. We tried to leave them in a back room，

　　 Decoyed by a gas lamp， and run out

　　 But they landed behind us here， at the front gate.

　　 It is 6th hour， early winter， black cold：

　　 Only， on the other side of the rice-paper doors

　　 The yellow ondol stone-heated floors

　　 Are still warm. I look out to the blue

　　 Lanterns along the runway， the bright airplane.

　　 Off the back step， Mother， disorganized

　　 As usual， has devised a clumsy rope and shovel

　　 To bury the urns. I wonder out loud how she ever became a doctor.

　　 Get out， she says Go to your father： he too

　　 Does not realize what is happening. You see，

　　 Father is waiting at the airfield in a discarded U. S. Army

　　 Overcoat. He has lost his hat， lost

　　 His father， and is smoking Lucky's like crazy. . .

　　 We grab through the tall weeds and wind

　　 That begin to shoot under us like river ice.

　　 It is snowing. We are crying， from the cold

　　 Or what？ It is only decades

　　 Later that， tapping the cold， glowing jars，

　　 I find they contain all that has made

　　 The father have dominion over hers.

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