There’s no AC and there’s a heatwave in Seattle.
Experts say it’s the hottest, sweetest day on record.
We’re two creatures drunk on THC, held by the floor,
sung to by the wings of plastic fans. We take turns wiping
sweat off each other’s temples. The earth is dying. I love
passing away with you.
My roof is leaking and it’s monsoon season in Seoul.
Experts say it’s the heaviest rainfall in one hundred and fifteen years.
I’m too sober for this shit. I lay old newspapers on the floor
that consume the brown water. Mosquitos kiss my ankles.
I close my eyes, keeping my phone next to my ear,
just in case you call.
Haro Lee lives in South Korea with her grandmother. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in Michigan Quarterly Review, Zone 3 Press, The Offing, The Indianapolis Review, and elsewhere. She was the recipient of Epiphany Magazine’s Breakout 8 Writers Prize. You can find her @pilnyeosdaughter.