Milk and Money by Jenna Tripke
The papers say I was born in an orphanage in Seoul
when I was approximately 2.4 years old. They gave me
a stranger’s name. They made me the head of my own
family. The papers say that I took rice and milk daily,
that I held my ground against the other bastards,
that I was of moderate health. They cleared the way
for my exchange across the sea. How lucky I am,
they say, to be wanted by pale strangers who cried
for me! Whose prayers gained voice when the check
cleared. Ordered and delivered like an oriental rug
to the Promised Land, the land of milk and money.
Now these faded copies are all that remain to prove
I existed before I was erased and remade; the originals,
In some soiled corner of the Motherland—
a place they say I’ve been, a place
I’ve never seen.
Jenna Tripke lives, writes, and dodges jury duty in Philadelphia. She has an MFA in Creative Writing, and the student loan bills to prove it. When she’s not writing, she spends her time crocheting boots for her three-legged pitbull, Lena, and augmenting her substantial essential oils collection. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Red Fez, Chronogram, and two.one.five.