The Fox Marble Catherine Kim (bio) It’s nothing so profound, reads her message to me as I wait beneath themantle where her portrait stands, merely the ghost of my affections on your fingers, which you take insideyour mouth in remembrance of me. Capture this dream in a marble, moonstruck in a kiss, and behold the creatures of the earth and the memory of salt, which is my warmth forever trapped in the teeth of your thumb, and do not mind the empty sky, which is the surface of the marble from inside it. Won’t you wait for me my thousand days of hunger for you? [End Page 50] From the overlook, Yeou could see the stretch of the village below her, from the paddy fields by the base of the mountain to the bus terminal at its furthest reach. With a finger outstretched towards the vanishing point, she could trace the road as it split from the highway and flowed into the village, winding around the homes, the crop fields, the greenhouses, and the livestock pens, past the irrigation pond and up the slope towards her perch. She couldn’t see the asphalt turn to gravel, or the gravel turn to dirt, as the path up the mountain was swallowed by the canopy near the terraced gravesites. The branch she had fashioned into a walking stick had snapped during her climb, and chestnut burrs clung to the fabric of her shoes and her pant legs. Above her, the daylight poured through the heated colors of the leaves that still clung to the trees surrounding the burial mound. The sun fled over the crown of the mountain, a white-hot nimbus illuminating the monument on its peak. The clouds bent the sky into a dome, as if sometime during her ascent the heavens had collapsed around the earth and shrunk it inside an orb, or as if Yeou herself had grown into a giant who still thought herself an ordinary girl, tall enough to behold the curvature that was the boundary between this world and all that lay beyond it. Having come here in the wake of her beloved Nabi’s passing, with thoughts of her stuck in Yeou’s throat, Yeou was not surprised by how the horizon circumscribed the sights around her, only by the way the limitations of the world had now become visible to the naked eye. Yeou leaned against her father’s burial mound so that her head lay on the soft earth and the wildflowers tickled the back of her neck. She shut her eyes to blot out the strange geometry. She felt the wind haunting her lips; she heard it move through the leaves. She felt the kiss of the butterfly’s feet as it perched on her nose; she heard the crunch of the grass under her father’s shoes as he stepped out from behind the mound. She felt the weight of his hand as he ran his fingers through her hair and the pollen displaced by the butterfly’s wings as it flew away. She had meant to come with a rake, she said, to pick up the leaves, and a bill hook to cut away the overgrowth that threatened to shroud the path up to the clearing. But she’d forgotten to pack the garden tools and the plastic bags and the basket with containers of grilled fish and green grapes and a bottle of plum wine inside it. Instead, she found [End Page 51] herself climbing up the mountain with nothing but the holes in her memory. Now that she was here, Yeou might prick her fingers prying the burrs from her clothes, then pull the weeds that were choking the crown of her father’s burial mound. It was the least she could do, having neglected him for so long. She leaned against her father, pressing her temple to his shoulder, and breathed in the smoke that fled from his lips. Through the holes in her memory, he said, she might remember another’s memories in turn. Long ago, buckled into a window seat on a bus headed to Seoul, the promise of...