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Kristin LaTour
After the Sewol Sank, 2014
There are empty spaces in the rooms
our children are not crowded into, no cries.
We stand on the beach and call their
names into the wind, but they are just
carried back to us, transparent. We
are not grateful for imagination and
experience. The water is cold. Underneath
the surface is dark. The boats pump air
into the cavities to keep the ferry afloat.
They are like lungs. The ferry is a shark.
One mother asks, see, this child, round
faced, almond eyes, laughing? She loved
goats and sparklers. Another shows her child
dancing in a loop, hula hoop around his waist.
Their bodies are now cradled by arms that weep
seawater when they bring them above.
They are shrouded in a tent, then blankets.
We are told their fingers are broken.
How hard they tried to climb out, how
metal doesn’t care about tendons and bone.
The searchers are blind, reach forward
in the darkness for softness. The water is cold.
Underneath the surface is dark. There is
nothing between them and our daughters’ hair
flowing black, the jelly of our sons’ eyes, the supple
breast or curve of a knee. We try to be thankful
for touch and connection, that fingers can feel.
They are shrouded in a bag, the a tent, then blankets,
then caskets. We are asked to look at their hands
and ankles, find marks that show they belong
to someone. We do not see their faces.
We want to be thankful for their youth
the soft breath of sleep we watched when
they were just born. We want to be thankful
that they were together in the end, embracing
each other until—
The monks continue praying, eyes closed, facing
the sea, silent and wrapped in orange cloaks. Mourners’
candles are shielded from the wind by cups. Who shielded
our children from the water? Who will shield us
as we walk before their two hundred portraits, the scent
of lilies perfuming our grief?
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