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In two of your poems you called that central Passage of womanhood a wound, Instead of a curtain guarding a silken Trail of sighs. How many men, Upon regarding such beauty, helplessly Touching it, recklessly needing To enter its warmth again and again, Have assumed it embodies their own ache Of absence, the personal Gash that has punished their lives. So endowed of anatomy, any woman Who has been loved Knows that her tenderest blush Of tissue is a luxe burden of have. Although it bleeds, this is only to cleanse, To prepare yet another nesting for love. It is not a wound, friend. It is a home for you. It is a way into the world. ↗
The reader feels as if he is in Chongjin, where starving people ate the bark off trees; or atop Mount Taesong with the elite of Pyongyang, whose existence is a mix of sadism and whimsy; or with the masses who are bombarded day and night with the propaganda of North Korea's alternate reality. ↗
