While the chattering water ripples through the kitchen, and a thin layer of liquid coats the plates on the table, shining in the sunlight, scrub the metal plate as it reflects in your bare hands.
Grab the cup and continue washing until it’s filled with turbid water, mirroring the birds that carry the sky.
Looking through the swirls of white that sit at the surface of the cup, you may pour it back into the sink and wait for the rain to comb the clouds, which seems to mute the dogs barking at the back door.
Listen to the sudden rustle emerge from the sonamu peeking through your window, a pause interrupted by the sound of your neighbors.
You will remember Ms. Park apologizing for her children when they stained your wall with paint.
Take the sponge that you left yesterday on the sink and bathe it in soap once more, a citronella déjà vu.
Your hands like dried plums, lukewarm water tracing the lucid map of wrinkles.
Let the china drown in the basin.
Wash the muck you created while watching the morning news—the namdaemun shop that sells helmets has shut down.
A distant susurrus of an old man’s garbled voice.
Wrap your hands in the brittle cloth you use every day.
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