trout

Diary of a Botanist: 4

Don Mee Choi

In the forest since 1981. My nationality. My nation. I am not saying. I am not staying.

I am not sane. I am not same. I am not Chinese. I am not Japanese. I speak English. I speak. Mother lives in a house. I store infected pine needles behind the door, the thick clouds. Inside the laboratory, I count again. I was ten. I was sad. I don't remember. Who let the engine run? Who ordered cyanide? I only scream at night. I have dreams. My port of arrival. I defy the cradle law like an unwed parrot. No one is alarmed. After the experiment, I wipe. Mother has mishandled meat again. Bitch. The door has to be wiped again. Yes, I hope to die. Pine needles fall like hair. Yes, I bag everything. Fungi can grow. There are also pine trees in my country. No one knows how to symbolize home. The clouds, the fog, I was sad. I delay sameness. I delay you. I hope to marry you, you, and you. I hope to marry your nation.