Stephen K. Kim

Childhood Recollection

It was not that Aaron’s father ever beat him,
but how he would come home late at night,
flushed and wafting a stale sour stench, and
set off by the flickering overhead light
or dirty dishes in the sink, proceed to hurl
whatever in reach against the tiled kitchen floor.
This time, it began with the percussive smashes
of three china plates, with delicately rendered
woodland scenes around the edges. Then,
the thud and splatter of a watermelon
from the supermarket, one Aaron picked
with his father because it rang hollow
when knocked. Followed by shattering glass:
two frames holding Aaron’s baby pictures,
a vase of wildflowers gathered from the yard.
 
Aaron could not recall if he cried
or cowered during his father’s rampages.
What he does remember is how
he would slink silently to get gloves, shoes,
and a broom, how he would sweep up
the aftermath of his father’s rage,
collect it in the kitchen trash, double bag
so nothing would rip, put on his warmest coat,
and heave it gently into the dumpster outside.

Stephen K. Kim (he/him) is a queer Korean American writer and educator in upstate New York. He enjoys spending time with his husband and his cat. His poems appear or are forthcoming in Ghost City Review, Neologism, Thimble, and elsewhere. He can be found online @skimperil.