Quarantine tasting sour

Art by Sandi Shao & Elina Krima

means we escape

to the mountain every day. Johda is

a chorus, swallowed

by the horizon on Monday,

caught in the mouths of forsythias

on Tuesday. It’s been a while

since I sensed good. The last time,

the four of us seated miles

above the ocean, pressing our fingers

to the windows—a thousand prayers

to Seoul. Tonight, we bow

to the east, translate

the news into pieces

more languid, edible—

we cannot mouth

the star-spangled prose

of this land of the free.

Sixteen years of folding

into ourselves—when can we leave?