There’s no Kimchi in Chinatown

It’s September 11, but I’m not thinking about burning towers, I’m thinking about Chuseok in Korea, how unpatriotic. Everyone will be going to the villages and making and eating sungpyeon. A year ago I was in a rental car driving towards Seoraksan, the northern mountain, with David and Jenny.

I didn’t know I would miss it so greatly; that my ghost would linger there; that it would not be mashed potatoes or hamburgers that I crave any longer, but kimchi. I searched the alley markets in Chinatown, but couldn’t find any. Only a small market in Japantown, sells in mason jars, that putrid, vibrant, stringy, delicious substance.

Mist in the mountain
for dinner we will eat rice
time moves so quickly