I sat on the edge of the deck
putting on my boots in the sun
women gathering around a well
in the courtyard, chatting
brushing their long wet hair
blue glints lighting up and going out

they were like ravens, oblivious of me
and keenly aware at the same time
being so much themselves
I felt free, the world confirmed
and at peace with the scene
alone in the sun taking my time
putting on my boots
in the radiance of an ordinary morning
at a whorehouse in Seoul, 1962

a month later the Cuban Missile Crisis
put the entire U.S. armed forces on red alert
and brought the world to the brink
of nuclear war

I don’t remember the woman
with whom I had spent the night
except the grateful comfort we shared with each other

I had come on her late
in the streets of Seoul after the bars had closed
not knowing where I’d sleep
and she had been unable to catch a GI
we both knew we were each other’s last chance
to get inside for the night

she led me down puddled streets and alleys
I had no idea where I was or where she was leading me
to finally arrive at a door in a wall
opening onto this small community
of little hooches with sliding paper doors
a wooden deck connecting them in a circle
and in the center, the next morning, a well
where sun poured in

I remember the pillow
was filled with sand
that I was taken in
without a name
a grain of sand with many others
mutely nudged along the bottom of the Yalu River
to end up in a pillow cradling a sea of dreams
no one back home would understand
women at the well
tending a hub of peace that held