© TaeHun Yoon, 1979 then 2025

By the dry well,
on a slab of stone,
a snake lifted its swollen throat
and made a sound
not meant for ears.

From the bed,
it slipped its tongue
into the shell of my ear—
and wept.

That night,
years of silence
spilled from the chest.

In the dark,
I searched my own depths,
found the twisted snakes within,
and gave each one a name.

In the swirling sandstorm,
they stood in line—
dancing, gasping,
hissing in celebration
as the wind blew through the well
like breath through a flute.

Now, without fear,
they hold a wedding.
Pressed to the earth,
with burning eyes,
they call to rabbit and wolf alike:
Come. Come. Come.

Death is not a locked door.
It is a roar—
threatened, certain,
an open gate.

An owl slipped
from a hole in the rock,
watched the storm pass,
and said,
We dodged it well, didn’t we?
Come out.

Time moved on.
And waited.

Dizziness approached,
and the roof above
was thick with stars.