Corset
Jennifer Choi

my features mirror my father’s—
a worn-out metaphor made flesh.
in my face, my late father expands,
layering over me like wet kelp.
his fabric aligns with mine,
seam to seam,
plotting to fit together perfectly.
with tireless intent,
he tries to infect me.

the metaphor trails me,
tightens into an image.
my father wears me,
circling endlessly,
sticking, smearing, seeping.
did he live to rehearse
this role of me?

i can’t breathe.
father, let me go.
stop calling my name—
it shrinks each time you speak it.

thick makeup cannot hide your face in mine.
parts of you, worn & frayed,
became me.
hot, vengeful blood surges through a body
born old,
a threadbare existence.
even in death, i can never be new.
even in death, i cannot be whole.

sometimes, all that feels real
is the absence of me—
a hollow bread pan,
a truth as stark as it is empty.

my essence orbits outside your call.
but your ancient grin,
unyielding, presses close,
woven into my fabric.
warp & weft—
your laughter tangles into mine,
& i smile back,
folded, like a wrinkle.