by Erikka Durdle

One day, my son might ask me what it means to be a quarter Korean.
And I will tell him the quarter means nothing.

Once, I drank the fermented cabbage
buried deep in soil
marinated in salt,
garlic, and sugar;
in something of the sea, in scallions and apples,
in gochu garu.
Now, it fills my breasts with drink for him.

I will tell this to him so he understands:
내 아들아, 너는 온전하다
as if my mother could give me any less than herself,
as if I could give any less to him.

About the Author
Erikka is a graduate of Southern New Hampshire University’s Mountainview MFA and was the recipient of the program’s Safford Book Prize for best Fiction thesis and the Lynn Safford Memorial Prize. She is the editor of Hallaren Literary Magazine and a staff writer at JADEN magazine. Erikka has words in Assignment Magazine and (forthcoming) in the Field Guide Poetry Magazine. She is working on her first novel, a story about a Korean mother and her pregnant American daughter. You can follow her on twitter @durdlealoha.