MY GRANDMOTHER AFTER KOREA
Arah Ko
gained three more tongues, and never learned
to bite any of them. Fierce and only 4’11”, we rarely saw
eye to eye. She told me stories, laughing as she scoured
me with soapy water: the dry fluff of popcorn kernels,
nearly too hot to touch, sold at market to pay
for school. How she ate each of them, one after another.
She raised piglets to escape her father’s second wife,
carefully rotating them so the littlest had enough to eat.
Words she did not have to say: after the war,
there was never enough food. How Japanese names
clung to her family long after the annexation ended,
no matter how hard she scrubbed. How of course
it was a restaurant she opened in the new country,
although people said she ate dogs instead of ducks.
How, when she was stripped naked of her old name
and told she should choose a new, easier one,
she didn’t even hesitate to say: Joy.
