Han

They call it han
that rises
from tiger corpses

If you read the spilled entrails, they say
pull the womb out, in lonely homes, they say
crush the stomach with cannonballs, they say

the waste
will
sigh

resides, they say,
in our tiger fur
shrouding beady rabbit eyes

they showed me videos of shot blurry bodies
they told me Koreans survive like vermin
calling close eradication

They are all dead
To famine’s dirty water and infested grain
I take every whistle in the night as a near miss and

I stay
by these bodies
fanning the rising steam