Li-Young Lee Poems
|2.||Arise, Go Down||3/11/2015|
|4.||Dreaming Of Hair||1/13/2003|
|5.||Early In The Morning||1/13/2003|
|8.||For A New Citizen Of These United States||1/13/2003|
|10.||I Ask My Mother To Sing||1/13/2003|
|16.||Out Of Hiding||1/13/2003|
|18.||The City In Which I Loved You||1/13/2003|
|19.||The Father's House||1/13/2003|
|23.||This Hour And What Is Dead||1/13/2003|
|24.||This Room And Everything In It||1/13/2003|
|25.||Visions And Interpretations||1/13/2003|
Early In The Morning
While the long grain is softening
in the water, gurgling
over a low stove flame, before
the salted Winter Vegetable is sliced
for breakfast, before the birds,
my mother glides an ivory comb
through her hair, heavy
and black as calligrapher's ink.
She sits at the foot of the bed.
My father watches, listens for
the music of comb
My mother combs,
pulls her hair back
tight, rolls it
around two fingers, pins it
in a bun to the back of her head.
For half a hundred years she has done this.
My father likes to see it like ...
I've pulled the last of the year's young onions.
The garden is bare now. The ground is cold,
brown and old. What is left of the day flames
in the maples at the corner of my
eye. I turn, a cardinal vanishes.
By the cellar door, I wash the onions,
then drink from the icy metal spigot.
Once, years back, I walked beside my father