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Eulogy for Our 처녀귀신 Selves Every 28 Days

Su Cho | Poetry

Vine-ripe tomatoes, grenadine filled

water balloons, torn pomegranates—

we squeeze these offerings between

our thighs. We hold a trial, all of us

naked, to see who can have the realest

period. If we attend, we are accustomed

to our gwishin lives, come to terms

with why we’re here, how we died

too pure, and the youngest of the ghostly

bunch perform the best—learning

to clutch their lower stomachs,

press a palm against their lower back.

Moan in pain. One dipped crumpled

newspaper bits into red paint and glue—

We grasp each other’s hands and scream

until one of them cuts herself,

stopping at the sight of real blood.

This doesn’t hurt one bit, she sighs.

The rest of them follow, are ecstatic.

Bless this holy day, one wails.

Shut the fuck up, another scoffs and like that the spell breaks

and we clean the floors as if nothing ever happened.