Elegy, Ashen

by Katie Kim

In her face, I find grief’s white-

rose solitude: white as sawn wood. Her lips

could once singe a match with only

the embered strike of her words—now, the rusted

rooftop rail gnaws at her lasting

thoughts, what I imagine they were. This house

remembers her. The kettle’s mouth still whispers

her name, her bedroom mirror still holding

the bloom of her laugh in its unknowing

face. Now, her blouse has curled into ash. The loose

hair caught in the drain—ash. Her skin

post-flame—a river of ash. The yellow apron she wore

each day, slicing peaches into waning moons

so her only daughter would smile—a memory

of ash. The ring of light she left

where her wedding photo spent a decade

rusting—the mercy of ash. Her faint perfume still

hangs in the air like a promise. Her promise: I’ll be

home soon, ae-gi-ya^[1]—a promise

of ash. After she died, the quiet street outside

our house blurred with rain: days of it, wipers

swiping my confusion from the windshield

each time I tried to leave home: no more

neatly-folded bed sheets, no more suffocating

good morning hugs, no more cereal boxes

lined up neatly against the counter’s edge after

shaking Rice Krispies into her bowl. I exhale

on-beat with the air conditioner’s hymn, humming

from the balcony until its mouth fills—

a fist of ash. Then, silence smears my ashen skin.

^[1] Baby in Korean

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Katie Kim is a student attending Deerfield Academy in Deerfield, Massachusetts. As a writer, she is particularly interested in poetry and realistic fiction. Her work has previously appeared in SWWIM, Connecticut River Review, Crashtest, and elsewhere. She is an alumna of the Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference, the Juniper Institute for Young Writers, the Advanced Ellipsis Writing Workshop, and the Adroit Summer Mentorship Program. As well as creative writing, Katie enjoys visual art and playing the oboe.