Claire Ibarra, C'est La Vie
H.P. and Beyond
Yuna Kang
Inflexible woman, teflon woman, woman of stale
mates and lonely nights, spinster girl, undesirable
woman, weaving yarns out of soft marrow and
snow. She
sends a fleecy sweater to her niece in Alabama, sweet
girl, does not reply. She goes to work in the morning and
likes it, but the administration gives her a side-
eye. They think she is a lesbian; they ask her out
right, and she simply goes home from work clutching swatched bags,
cowboy boots, a heel too low for
style. She eats cup noodle with a fork, old takeout napkins, sauce.
She had a dream once of fine dining, linen tablecloths and waiters at
her beck-and-call, resplendent in peacock gown. They want her to be glamorous;
(she was pretty when she was young but
everyone is pretty when they’re young). She puts a chopstick in messy
hair; she screws her glasses on tight. Messy woman, alone woman, unable
to muster the weakness needed to lie, withstanding a thousand
cold night, random freezes, glacial birds rising. She has a vision of penguins diving
from arctic lake into the blister-light sun. A thousand curt comments, corrugated sleeves of paper
cuts. She writes when she is lonely, and the blood crusts over by
morning. A thousand women, living alone, tending to quiet intimate fires
in the dark.
Yuna Kang
Inflexible woman, teflon woman, woman of stale
mates and lonely nights, spinster girl, undesirable
woman, weaving yarns out of soft marrow and
snow. She
sends a fleecy sweater to her niece in Alabama, sweet
girl, does not reply. She goes to work in the morning and
likes it, but the administration gives her a side-
eye. They think she is a lesbian; they ask her out
right, and she simply goes home from work clutching swatched bags,
cowboy boots, a heel too low for
style. She eats cup noodle with a fork, old takeout napkins, sauce.
She had a dream once of fine dining, linen tablecloths and waiters at
her beck-and-call, resplendent in peacock gown. They want her to be glamorous;
(she was pretty when she was young but
everyone is pretty when they’re young). She puts a chopstick in messy
hair; she screws her glasses on tight. Messy woman, alone woman, unable
to muster the weakness needed to lie, withstanding a thousand
cold night, random freezes, glacial birds rising. She has a vision of penguins diving
from arctic lake into the blister-light sun. A thousand curt comments, corrugated sleeves of paper
cuts. She writes when she is lonely, and the blood crusts over by
morning. A thousand women, living alone, tending to quiet intimate fires
in the dark.