-
Ode to the Picnic Singers, 1984
- Manoa
- University of Hawai'i Press
- Volume 14, Number 2, 2002-2003
- pp. 162-163
- 10.1353/man.2003.0049
- Article
- Additional Information
- Purchase/rental options available:
Manoa 14.2 (2002-2003) 162-163
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Ode to the Picnic Singers, 1984
Ishle Yi Park
[Figures]
[One Big Word]
...And then at dusk the woman
climbed atop the picnic table
and belted out a Patty Kim hit,
plastic spoon a mic clutched in her
fist!And the kalbi spit and bubbled dark
as azalea and crushed black diamond,
meat soy-sauced and sizzling in the July
heat waves
that hummed like the yellow frisbee flungover tiny Youna Ean, kneeling among clover
and dandelion.
Ay, the sky flapped above us like a soiled
workshirt
on clothesline while we twisted our ankles
over Chinese jump rope,
then flew by on flowered banana seats,
wind teasing streamersand the black whips of our hair, past
our brothers in visors and cut-off football
tanks,
lost in long switch grass and dewy goose
shit.
And our mothers raced! Piggybacking
frilled babiesover grass to catch with their teeth
butter cookies strung on a white finish line,
to the slow butterfly thighs of their men.
Far from the dented Volvos and Hyundaisbereft in the parking lot, these husbands
whorled and spun
in dervishes around that imported leather
rugby ball
from Seoul, bathed in a halo of their own
sweat
and kicked-up dirt. Our parents gathered, [End Page 164]
shook loose the workday, their hangook
tongues
like wild geese skimming over lake.
They popped open barrel-shaped
Budweisers
and let the foam spill over; they let the
foamspill over. My father tilted the can to
baby Sarah's mouth
and laughed at her sputtering, a laughter
so serious
I think I forgive him, his hungry
rough cheeks waning
to the woman's hungry, rough songs. And
Jung Yun's umasang like a torn-up hymnal. She sang
until we dropped
the twigs and pigeon feathers from our
hands
to sit cross-legged in the nest of our
mothers,
she sang like a yanked-out phone cord:
shrill,cut, ringing, 70s pop ballad fervid
with religion so unlike our Sunday
falsettos,
she sang and we believed in a smaller,
gruffer, chip-toothed god: she sang the
dusk down.And we, staring up at her knees,
rested in the blue fall of each other's
shadows
while the bab and ban chan, paper
plates and water coolers
were left, for once, gratefully unattended.
Ishle Yi Park was born to Korean immigrant parents in New York in 1977. After abandoning business school, she received a degree from Sarah Lawrence College. A recipient of a fiction grant from the New York Foundation for the Arts and currently a writer-in-residence for the program Youth Speaks, she has been published widely. Her first book is The Temperature of This Water (Kaya Press, 2003).
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