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When I was born,

he whispered to me sweetly

about my future.

He said to get married

well,

I needed to peel an apple

perfectly

in one

go. 

Jokingly, it was first said. 

Tauntingly it was second said. 

Yet by the third time, sternly it was told. 

The 98th and the 99th time. 

It was sometime after the 98th but

before the 99th

time did those words slither

down my indifferent ear

did I first pick

up

the sharpened blade. 


The blade clung to

my hand and

it seemed sacrilegious to not nick

the red blushing

skin

carving it of its shell,

bare. 


So I begin to peel.


And peel. 


And peel. 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

And peel. 


And peel. 


Only after the 46th skin

was severed, a perfect skinning

failed

did I realize he

had won.


He may be withering away,

his sickly nails

gripping at his last shreds of vitality,

the lid on his urn nearly

shut,

silenced

by his offspring,

the younger

she, and

his offspring’s offspring,

the baby

they,

but

his words still vibrate

in my mind. 

I drink a glass of

apple

soju. 


사과를 예쁘게 깎으면 시집을 잘 간다. 

 
 
 

There’s a saying in Korean, if a woman peels an apple perfectly in one go, that woman will get married well (사과를 예쁘게 깎으면 시집을 잘 간다). Mom, I can get married now is performance piece about this old saying that lives two lives as an installation and video piece.

The video life will be coming soon.