“We are preaching about the Holy Mother,”
the boy says to me, in English now. I admit
feeling interest—really? holy mother?—but
when he says, “Do you have time?
Three minutes?” I reconsider.
I know what “three minutes” means
when it comes to proselytizing on the street.
I picture myself, a half hour from now,
drowning in the words I don’t know—
I tried, actually, but never got through
a memorization of Korean church language—
attempting to find reason after reason
to get away. They’ll follow me to the café,
where I intend to write a poem,
read a book, work, the things I truly love.
I step away but they persist, smiles bright.
I tried to be part of an organized religion,
but a single doctrine never stuck well to me.
I’m lonely here today, homesick, and talking
to people who won’t turn away doesn’t sound
so bad. I say okay. They begin. I don’t
understand but nod into the cold sun.
All day long I feel like crying. I fight
with my mother on the phone. I tell my husband
I can’t talk long, just because. I lie in bed
for an extra six hours but never end up falling
asleep. I’m lonely for this place already, homesick
for the world I’ll be leaving behind. I can’t stop
thinking I’ll never come back. It’s so far.
I can see why these young people choose
to spend their sunny day out on the street
preaching about God. It’s much nicer
to believe in ever than never. Now I want
to lay my head on her soft, robed lap.