Tracks in the Borrowed Country

Pressed into earth—four pads, claws extended.

The grass holds the shape of passing. Something wild. Something that knew.

I kneel at the edge where fur still clings.

 

Long strands decay, fly away— transcending to whispers.

 

These tracks could be mine. Could be eomma's. Could be the path between Seoul and here, where I learned a tongue that never quite fit my mouth.

The animal that made these— did it look back? Did it wonder about the cubs it left behind?

 

My utterances reflect not knowing my kin's name.

 

I follow until the trail disappears into forest, into unknowing.

Somewhere, footprints lead home. Somewhere, a mother's scent still lingers on wind I will never breathe.

 

Will they recognize my face?

Who will claim me.