Portrait of Water Teaching My Tongue the Word for Home

Charcoal swirls like smoke
from my grandmother's kitchen—
the way she drew infinity
with her wooden spoon
in broth that held
our hunger.

needle threaded coves of branches
shelter my weaving loom

Here, water learns to speak Korean,
stuttering over stones
the same way I stumble
through 안녕
my tongue still foreign
to my own mouth.

Fallen logs become bridges
become barriers
become the way we cross
what cannot be crossed—
sticky humid moss grows
kin that never leaves home

And on concrete, the red string
manifesting connection for the future
thinner than my mother's patience
stronger than the ocean
that I crossed
leaving her there
in a country that tastes
like home and remembering.

I draw hair gathered
to interlace into nets

The thread knows what I am learning:
that home is not a place
but a current
that flows beneath
everything we touch—
the way water finds water
the way blood calls to blood
the way this red line
pulled taut between
here and there
the red string
makes mapping
possible.

In Korean, we say
빨간 실
red thread—
the invisible cord
connecting us
to what we're meant
to love.

I am still learning
to trust
the pull.