"Vertigo" by Sehee Oh

Firsthand experience comes last. This is because

no one knows the right way to say sorry. Don’t apologize.

I throw my left shoe at your face. It leaves a dent. 

You think it’s funny. You think it’s funny that I am writing 

a confessional poem. You say good night to the sun

and open a rift in the air in such unearthly innocence. 

One of these days, you will fail to step out the front door.

And I will be looking after you, you who broke your two ankles

and lost your right eye. But I write this for you your eyes your 

ears your heart. You were born in the highest place of the city

made of marbles. But today you tell me you were born 

in a brutalist building. I nod to both statements and draw you 

sagging into a tight passage. In my drawing, you let go of 

all solid pleasures and one certain memory, the one that almost seems real 

to both of us. That’s when we are surrounded by the cracks 

of the Earth that make me see your beauty. The world spills whirrs of shattering glasses 

rises sets stuns us with raw unfinished stars rings that glow in the dark.

I heard a conjecture that you died a year ago. Some say that you died

with a leash on. Because I hate to imagine that, I squint

and put a leash on myself. I begin to see now I don’t suspect I don’t budge I stare.

Sehee Oh is a poet from Seoul, South Korea, living in Providence, RI. She is currently studying Literary Arts at Brown University.