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2023 Academy of American Poets Prize

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A Seoul Forest Dream

by Dione Cavadias
 

Why can I only ever write about the sea? Why does every breeze take me to the beach? Even when I’m here, under Seoul’s leaves, resting On park benches and the dapples in between trees, I’m always thinking about where I’d rather be. Is it because I was born by the sea? Spent my summers pressed on hot pebbles. Crossed the coasts. Met the points where mountains melt into puddles; into pockets of bubbles and crabs caught in the crumbles of boulders. Maybe it’s because the breeze carries me: drops me onto piers, dangling feet over sea urchins and transparent greens, fishing rods swinging over fishing boats and fishing nets whose fishy smell legitimize frozen fish at fishy restaurants. And even Korean chatter takes me back to my café clatters. To outdoor chairs and sun- scorched tables, to rolling “r’s” and earthy vowels, to unruly words inspiring unruly laughter. But then Seoul’s fluff softens the scene, gently muffles the memory. Because, you see, it’s that time of spring when the sky is filled with falling petals, pollens and all kinds of nature’s cottons. And the “remind me’s” that drifted me also carry me back into this waking dream. Where I’m resting on park benches under the dapples in between these leaves. And the city breathes, in these pockets of trees, in the puddles of time melted by the rare blue sky. Where consonants chime and new words ruffle. Where bubbles are blown and puppies roam and people scatter and chatter, they play and parade—and I remain. Here with the wind who carries me.

 

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