Poetry: Camellia by Elane Kim
In “Camellia,” a mother teaches a daughter the quiet mysteries of womanhood; the speaker is taught to hold on to Seoul, to sing without a mouth, to listen to the mournful river.
Camellia
The first thing a mother teaches
her daughter is that spines take root
where tongues end. The beginning
is only important if you let it
swallow you. Listen to the river,
the way it echoes. Look at the fruit
trees, the crepe myrtle, the white fence.
Let Seoul be a song you inherit. Let persimmon
peels collect, skin by skin. I can’t tell you
where my body stops & where yours starts,
only that we are what is left of summer,
all that has never stopped burning.
The incomplete combustion
of light. The last thing a mother teaches
her daughter is how to sing
without a mouth. Listen to the river,
the way it mourns. Look at the quiet bloom
& all the ways to drown in it.
Elane Kim
Elane Kim is a high school student based in California. Her writing has been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation and the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her work appears or is forthcoming in One Teen Story, Diode, and Rust + Moth, among others. She serves as the editor-in-chief of Gaia Lit.
