How to Draw Your Mother's Lungs from Memory

Han River breathes through winter's ribs—
each branch a bronchiole reaching
for what the body knows of cold.

Mother, your heart sketched in charcoal
still beats in my chest like bare trees
mapping the lung-space between us.

January burns its burnished imprint
on paper thin as skin. I trace
the anatomy of missing you:

how sorrow flows like black ink,
how memory pools in the chambers
of this season's hollow chest.

Even now, the river moves
through leafless arteries, carrying
your voice downstream to spring.