Water Memory

by Marie Hoffman

The milky white water

rolls over me in gentle waves,

set in motion by my legs

lifting out and resting

on the edge of the bathtub.

The sleek white panels coated

in steam take me into

a milky white memory of

the white hallway that trails on

forever, the window

I peer into for hours

while Halmoni lies under blue

surgical sheets. Her stiff face

is as cold as my ten-year-old lungs.

It is funny how sound is lost first,

the surgeon’s mouth moving

in silent conversation with Samcheon.

My mother is beating her chest

as if trying to start her heart again.

Each thud is another vibration

in her bones on their way to breaking.

There is little breath left

in lungs, then they are expelled

like the bathwater I let down the drain,

a reminder of the ones

I cannot hold.

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Marie Hoffman graduated from Eastern Washington University with a BA in English (2011) and an MFA in Creative Writing (2014). She has publications in Up the Staircase Quarterly, The Avalon Literary Review, Sierra Nevada Review, Tilde, and The Menteur. She lives in the Seattle area, and teaches at Northwest University.