Hannah Kim

Dalgona Ghosts

It is sweet, it literally means

In my distant mother tongue 


A honeycomb snack sold on Korean streets

Now gracing tiny internet screens 

with coffee-whipped sensation—

Ghosts from long past

Materialized rose-colored this spring

To haunt bittersweet respite as

dual Pandemics rage on—

15g of ammunition 

lodged quietly in Koreatown

unearthed thirty years’ delay

Potential to pierce the unassuming

walking home from the store, presently— 

or inside, fifteen years old: Latasha

Shot by woman resembling 

an unmet aunt of mine



As imperceptibly as Grief

The Summer lapsed away—

Too imperceptible at last

To seem like Perfidy—

A Quietness distilled

As Twilight long begun, 

Or Nature spending with herself 

Sequestered Afternoon—

The Dusk drew earlier in—

The Morning foreign shone—

A courteous, yet harrowing Grace, 

As Guest, that would be gone—

And thus, without a Wing

Or service of a Keel 

Our Summer made her light escape

Into the Beautiful

-Emily Dickinson