An Other's Sea

When I think of the morning there,
there, where the orange Korean sun gently
brushes my cheek and greets us all
as we slowly sit silently in the crowded teacher workroom,

there, in a foreign land with a fauna of gifted lilies,
potted orchids, and ornamental grasses,
surrounded by a sea of bespectacled, black-haired teachers
(the song sang neems)
swimming against the undercurrent,
amidst waves of textbooks, workbooks and tissue boxes,
beneath discarded paper cups, juice bottles, and rice cakes,
feet swinging mildly
in high heeled flippers,

there I wait,

not with excitement or curiosity,
not with glistening eyes and a fluttering heart,
but calmly, for the daily bread,
the manna to sustain us through our long-winded days.

The door opens triumphantly
to reveal the principal with big smiling teeth and wire-rimmed glasses,
his balding, bobbing head propelling him to the front of the room.
Behind him, and over him,
the school chaplain,
ever impressive, ever stern, ever starched white shirt.

I bite my breath, and smile
all around the black heads bob like glimmering seals in a wave of greeting
as the mighty ships pass.

Unceremoniously, without greeting,
the pastor sounds:
“Chanson ga sa baek ship sam.”
Without pause, in one simple swell of movement,
the hymnal pages find their place.

I pause, and wait for
a song I won't really sing,
notes I don't really know,
with a tongue I do not have.

And I am left dry and hungry
amidst the seals barking.