“You’ll be taken first.” (This girl is a classic beauty.)
“And you look like a minister.” (This man has a kind face.)
“You look like a fox.” (I am a female ghost, a demon.)
Laugh, laugh—gold chain, and cigarette.
At least I am not the egg ghost, the woman whose face is entirely blank.
At least I am not the maiden, buried before she could become a woman.
At least I am not the bone who was the maiden, waiting to be shown his finest treasure.
To be pissed on, to be brought to life. This folk tale.
The steam cleans my fox face. The stew smells like ham, ”hemul,” and a boy’s salt-stained neck.