translated from the Korean by Jack Jung

I tie up my hair, putting strength into the tying hands.
I like the grip I have now, feels like I could aptly press on some neck.

Even now, certain names
become lonelier the more they’re called,
and it’s unbelievable that they make me feel like a good person.

Each time I recall the list of things I shouldn’t do,
I feel suffocated, as if I’ve become my own future.

I shudder imagining my name contained in someone’s voice.

If people die leaving their names behind,
I’d choose not to die, spending eternity erasing my name,

but it seems easier to press down on someone.

I thought about this a lot,
and often met eyes with my cat while doing so.

The cat’s name is Mango, Mang as in “forget” and Go as in “pain.”
I might forget the pain, but not other things.

The cat fits its body on the slippers I wear and lies on its belly.

How free and long does a string need to be to link the cat’s paws and mine?

I sit in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, my back and neck elongated,
saying this is a spot where sunlight and drowsiness pour in.

Beside Mango, adept at shedding fur, I will continue to maintain
my shoulder-length hair, good for tying,
calling out “Mango” now and then, growing an invisible string day by day.

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