watching Les Misérables
on a radiant afternoon,
Jean Valjean reaching into
the air bent by candlelight,
you do not remember entirely
what it means to see the face
of God. stagecraft ignites
lightning and gunfire. grime
stains a young girl’s cheeks,
arms cradling a bundle of
rags. a bridge parts in two and Javert
hangs, limbs flailing, receding
into the mouth of a digital
whirlpool. “how on earth
did they do that?” proclaims
the old white lady beside you.
Les Misérables was Haraboji’s
favorite musical, encountered
first in translation. the tome of
French rendered in Korean. a
story for a storyteller. an
approximation of revolution.
his eyes moistened hearing their
songs for the first time on Broadway.
to forgive and to live and to
forgive. the curtain call gives way
to the sweeping wave of light.
the pulse of a summer evening.
you text an uncle to thank him
for the roast duck you ate with
his family before the matinee.
the red lanterns flutter across
the street. at a poetry reading you
attend in the evening, air reverent
in a meditation center, the speaker
speaks of the shaping of a desire
to love. an i to a you. he recalls
a novel featuring a girl.
she wraps a rag around a stick
to hold tightly to her bosom.
her name was Cosette.