Write about my body or another less Hellenistic one: Cadillac, Escalade, Rust: deer-field-sometime-car, fleshier if less sublime than the divine model every woman emanates in a man: Venus of Parts: doe-ish, dim. So let me snap off my hood, startle the cock making shit talk on my collarbone. Flash a knife, quarter this stag from its bushy thrust. Let me, sly under hide tender his three elegant legs, plug and mount them on my porny holes and run. Let me rear and knock koo-koo on any front door. Tap-tap quarter, a lap of water, kindnesses reserved for more congenial sex gods. Am I all messed up? A Venus of Migration, let me slant my neck to the half-lit chandelier and imagine my own family at the table. Take to the road humdrum radio thrum, chimeric limbs slant, hitch a ride, try my luck at the next town over. Tomorrow, find me gone from the lawn: head of fawn, torso, cherubic dawn.

시로 내 몸을 짓는 아들아. 왜 또 나를 땅에서 지어 올리니. 외국 여신으로 만드니 마음이 덜 불행하냐. 내가 칼 들어 사슴 죽이고, 짐승 피를 얻고, 집을 다시 찾아가야 하겠냐. 걸음 아래 언제 피던 봉숭아 꽃...몸에 새겨진 남 껍질 향...아무것도 모르는 풀밭 바람으로 태어나기 바랬지. 죽으면 그만이다. 너도 이 어미를 발 밑에 덮어버려라.


See the road and the deer that comes with it. Struck and arranged like pulp—Mary in Bacon's iconography, blood-pitched and tawny, red spade of tongue held and let go from a black rim mouth. Why say at all about sight when always, above the road is a pool of water, saltlick, and the horny fragrance of flowers. I know our body. I take your red into my red, push my breath against yours, and nothing of your great belly heaves old life. This border between us was never easy, I know that is no surprise. To speak is ecstasy. To kiss something else entirely. Your wine dries dark, my sound drowns in it. Do we kiss, sister? Why is it only when one of us is thrown to the road our cosmos is totally naked? A lake of red glass, where ripples of a bloody carp reveals life for what it really is––an accident where the profit body is transformed into a singular deer. What use is language when the ancients divide us into our final haunted constellations? Look up and see a mirror of what's already here! How comical to read stars into accident and present into future and mean it!

그래 여기까지 해주마. 무당 머리에 내 혼 앉이고 너를 다시 만나주마. 어느 날 터진 사슴이 보일 거다. 사슴 입에서 빨간 호수가 모이면 거울같이 얼굴이 비칠 거다. 살려 주긴 늦었고, 발라 먹을 살도 없고, 길가에 썩어 버릴 수밖에 없다. 미래 같은 건 짧다. 거울 안에 얼굴 꼭 붙잡고 두 눈을 깨물어라. 세계가 보는 너와, 니가 보는 너와 차이 없다


I have a son and he is a poet. The poet eats from the head of my son and cuts a room into the air.
                               To be a poet is to have no dreams the poet says and hugs my son into his chest and tells me we are lovers, seals the air                                          
between us, my son in any other room but my own.

My son, I bless you as a god is hired to do. I bless the knife that skins the fawn from its mother's field. I bless the fat between the hide, the flesh, ignites. I bless your dream, its bullet caught in the poet's bite.

                                             Everyday, may you triumph as you whip my hide in your hands, hope it's enough to buy another word,
                                    enough work for kingdoms to end my wars and like it.

도야지, 도야지, 네 몸 안에 구슬처럼 돌린 귀한 사랑 덩어리. 언제 팔, 다리, 입술, 눈동자, 달 걸린 하늘 다 너한테 큰 벌처럼 떨어졌지? 아늑한 내 방 안에서 살 뜯어 먹고 자라긴 틀렸고. 언제 니가 날 안고 등을 쓰다듬어 줄까? 왜 엄마 되는 몸들은 자식 내어보내야 하지? 팔 하나 갈라버리고 길에 던졌지. 달 하나 쏴 죽여버렸지.


My enemy, how do I find you in this terrible museum of used goods: bills of sale, foot traffic. How many times do I enter this city of bodies greener and richer than me, holding a ticket to revisit my pasts? Nike, I return victory to you, this handsome head cast by a lucky stroke: a mortal American blond struck by a car, which I could kiss should I want it for myself. A husband remade isn't a bad idea if there is such a thing as a modular lover. Do you remember yours? He bet your life at the casino and that's how you got here, Nike of Samothrace. First stop at the Louvre. Beheaded. If I'm honest with myself, I'm lonely. But do I even want someone like you? A lover who flies away.
                A pyrrhic

친구 떼어놓고 여행이 길어졌다. 여행이 일상으로 변했고, 삶은 남편의 골목 안에 잠겨버렸다. 인제 여기까지 와서 누가 내 혼에 앉힌 능구렁이 건져 줄까. 고무신 같은 몸 벗었고. 때 묻은 양말 같은 정 띠어 버렸고. 글쎄, 그래도 눈뜨고 건너왔나 보네. 옥순아, 너도 여기 왔니?


What is this world to me
without that lodestar,
money? I am poor
and that’s reason
enough to strip
the warm animal
that never belonged
on a junk Venus
to begin with.
This is it. Life
in this parallel
western where
wingèd things fall
off of me and I take
the mountain path
and kill my son
before it's too hungry
to eat. Still every
chorus is tragedy,
just like every girl
who falls in love
is my doing. What
ocean was ever
majesty? A Venus
is time travel.
Just another deer
crossing the multiverse.

날개 달고 밥 먹으러 나갔다. 두두둑 두두둑 도망가는 짐승의 삶이. 따뜻한 어미 사슴 배를 열었다. 나 못 챙기고 사슴도 새끼 깔려고 노력했다. 그 안에 우주가 보였다. 구슬처럼 닦은 자식. 파란 밤에 떠올린 피 먹은 달 심장. 끝 모르는 열정의 바다. 잡아도 잡아도 물려주는 시간.


At what point did I collude collision and dream? That a deer on the road is dearest sister. That I am more warm animal for killing her to civilize my own great fires. I thought anyone driving furiously towards you was not a lover but a photograph and a crime scene of how the world really works. In acts of great love we do nothing.

꿈이 희망 달렸든 세계에 팔았다. 세상은 등을 돌렸다. 세계는 동그라미이다.


I am neither divine or the garden like it. No difference, what's taken away, and what I've given up. Why come here then, the angel's trumpets scant suggestion of music. A new karaoke that says come hither from a dusk-gold rapeseed disco. But what is promise if not slaughter and yield? An animal's call and response of here I am to take off my work and scatter my divinity to the winds, come to find something like home or nothing like it, lives? Would it be any other garden than a farm?

흔들었다. 음악을 따라갔다. 노래 불렀다. 아 아 아 내 입으로 방 더럽혔다. 입에서 똥 향 올라왔다. 우 우 우 자식들이 울었다. 우 우 우 짐승들도 울었다.

Jimin Seo was born in Seoul, Korea. He immigrated to the US to join his family at the age of eight. He earned his MFA from Columbia University. He is the author of OSSIA, a winner of The Changes Book Prize (2024). His poems can be found in Action Fokus, The Canary, LitHub, Pleiades, mercury firs, and The Bronx Museum.