Immaculate

Because I was born after ten hours of your labour in the middle
of the night, the attending doctor pulled me out of your womb,
his breath still reminiscent of soju and hanwoo,
while you lay on his bed pumped of epidural.

Because your child is born, your mother congratulates you.
It’s difficult and painful, being in labour—
when you pushed me out and had me detached,
when you were transported to the hospital in the ambulance
and your body cried its menial purpose in front of your coworkers;
when they name your child.

Because I am nine when I learn that my body obeys, 
not my brain, but the gods who teach only in eulogies.
When they claim me for their own, you do not know.

Because I’ve never been afraid to fall asleep,
when I wake up in the morning, you are staring at me
with your opal eyes, varnished with tar and grime.
You brush my hair and tie it up into a bun.

Because you weren’t allowed to name me.
Because you learned you’d not birthed a mother.

***

Juheon Rhee is a 16-year-old South Korean writer residing in the Philippines. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in 580 Split, Cleaver Magazine, Indolent Books, among others.