Where Mother Is

Where Mother Is
Yong Wan Choi 07.18.07
The old pillow where mother slept on the warm end of the ondol floor
she teased that my sweat-soaked laundry smelled Chinese
by day she tended the dirt fields
by night, worrying for her faraway children,
while she slept unable to stretch out her legs
the maiden dreams hidden in her folded arms
she tucked into her neatly ironed inner sleeves
found food for the children and fed them
lulled them to sleep with a soft voice and a warm embrace
a thin body that nursed and raised six children
thin hands on the refugee road of the war
the night the cannon fire boomed and shook the village
heedless of the gunpowder smell and black smoke
she passed along the back ways of our lives
on days when the scent of gourd flowers comes through the open brushwood gate
whenever mother, now gone, lies down again in the empty room of my heart
the warmth of that day's floor soaks my chest
where I go, mother's heart goes
where I come, she is already there before me
I am always living inside that love