I see someone frozen,

where my body lays  carefully embalmed
waiting for my grandchildren  to pick up the weeds,
  burn an incense
   and call out for protection,   a prepaid harvest,
the way the ears pick up the lyrics of a withered song [one by one, till all that’s left is the East wind of a once beautiful woman]   and lets that fire burn them alive.

Her grandson’s eating songpyeon the way   her mind ate her
  till she became the weed everyone wanted to throw away

from her father’s grave.