All Your Luck

Until the flood, I ignored the scenery:
a rabbit zipping to the white fence
and back, confined to the odyssey
lining the folds of Appa’s dream. Behind
his crinkled eyes, smoke fills
our empty kitchen. What does not evaporate
blackens. On the living room couch
I am still a fetus dreaming
of light. Every iteration of I See
a Darkness floats through the kitchen
at once. My mother wastes nothing—
tosses my bones into the strainer,
slices two lonely radishes, cannot help
but feel alone despite them. I ask how much
grace remains in the pot. Eat
while it’s hot, she insists, suddenly
mom again. The glass noodles wriggle
like sperm—little futures confined
to the hollow of my spoon. Picture me, a boy
reflecting into a bowl of glass. All along
I’ve ignored the scenery: Appa anchors
his hand to my knee, binding
my trembling ankles. You’ll shake away
all your luck. I am confined to the intruding light
of conversation. The siren in my heart
bursts out with her bronze trombone. I want
to say, I am the rabbit and the fence
and the darkness crowning the kitchen
but I know he’ll want an explanation.
That is too much, even for me, to give him.

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Ethan Kwak is a poet. A California Arts Scholar, he was recently commended by the 2024 Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award. In his free time, he plans and facilitates biweekly poetry discussions at his public library.