Some day you find yourself
in Korea in a room where you
sleep on the floor with white
down blankets stained
by the strawberries your lover
ate perilously. The couple
you traveled with shift about
the paper castle, their slippers
making soft apologies to the floor
and you wonder why this feels
particularly good and then you see
the light shining through the paper
in between the latticed wooden door,
paper so taut it makes you feel crisp
and dangerous, like the whole
thing could tear itself apart at any
moment now. Any moment now.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 1.
Samantha Ten Eyck is a teacher of yoga and writing. She writes poetry and creative non-fiction and lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota with her husband.
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