my name is wolf (but at what cost)

i saved myself but at what cost / what did i give up for this temporary stay / the spirit in me, holy or not / tells me it’s time to punish myself / but i choose this instead — poetry / from the safe side of a window / over and over // winter / february / is my father’s voice urging me / to remain silent / to hide my intentions / to sit alone until / they all fear me // but father, i am now 50 / and so afraid of / everything that sings // last night / this morning / loved ones remind me / that we are dying from each other / in secret / moving toward an end / like arms reaching out / to embrace a thing of skin // like my arms that tire / each time i write about mother / in the kitchen // i saved myself / or that’s what the doctor tells me / when i step away from the window / once more and until the next // but the forest calls me / the stillness / and the hawks / and branches left / stripped // the forest calls me / [father, is this fear, is this manhood] / while i celebrate / this thing called time / that takes everything / everything / under the sun.

i’ve walked into the park / again and again / thinking this is where / i’d find my heart // often it was in the dark / before the sun was boorish enough / to push through the branches // it’s gray—right now because / it’s a late january morning / in pennsylvania // there are many places / in which i have not belonged / not even counting my birthplace / sometimes you are forced to leave / before you even find out / if you want to stay // on tv, Rue says she doesn’t / think she is meant to last / in this life and is trying / so hard not to crumble // she is trying so hard to / hide her face from speaking / truth // i wonder what my own face / says to everyone / to you / if i have been successful in / keeping the secrets / that make me // i want to tell you / that i don’t trust anyone // i want to tell you / that i need to hold on / to your body / even if we forget each other’s names // the park—it’s cold i imagine / i have stopped going outside / i have stopped walking / i have stopped / for now / searching

daughter, it’s been months since i spoke to you / these days are covered in snow, places melted / hiding the cold pools of water in skies reflected / i woke up with my arms curled tight / clutching something i can no longer remember // yesterday we laughed on our walk / at the tiny footprints left on the steps of / a house around the corner / we wondered who lives there / what small lives // daughter, how does time work where you have gone / i want to say that i picture you in light / in a place more picturesque than this / but i only see your face surrounded by endless black air / how old are you now, daughter / because it’s getting harder to remember / harder to forget // are you a child / are you older than me / or are you still unborn / as you were when you left // it’s winter now / isn’t it always so? / and we are all dying // will you return then / and claim the life / you were meant to own // walk through this world / touch the resentful texture / of a leaf still green / and cry just to feel / warmth on your face // daughter, each day i am afraid / of learning to let you go / too late / and i’ll fail at loving my life / full enough to make you proud

the days between / the breaking / and the poem // searching for words / that were already / tucked in / your body // these ribs / a cage / that holds / a heart / this beating bird / in mourning // the two things / that ever belonged / to me— / my name / and the other / we call the ending // one long lost / the other not / yet here // all the windows / that called / for me / in different cities— / seoul / asunción / los angeles / san clemente / new york / pittsburgh // the pavement / that opens up / its cracked black / bosom // it would have been / so easy / it was always so impossible // it was never / my intent to leave / on this journey / nor yours // but your feet move / to survive / until the road / becomes hidden / under the snow / this path / like white death // their voices— / mom / father / your lost child / disappearing into / the silence / that consumes everything / in this never-ending / winter // a wolf / alone / running then walking / into the forest // to rest.


  • Chiwan Choi is the author of 3 books of poetry, The Flood (Tía Chucha Press, 2010), Abductions (Writ Large Press, 2012), and The Yellow House (CCM, 2017). He wrote, presented, and destroyed the novel Ghostmaker throughout the course of 2015. His poems and essays have appeared in numerous journals and magazines, including The New York Times Magazine, ONTHEBUS,, and The Nervous Breakdown. Chiwan is a partner at Writ Large Press and a member of The Accomplices. Chiwan was born in Seoul, Korea, spent his early childhood in Asunción, Paraguay, and now splits his time between Pittsburgh and Los Angeles. He is currently working on a new book, my name is wolf.

  • Multiple images of Saturn were taken by the Cassini spacecraft. In the first image, Cassini slipped into Saturn's shadow July 19, 2013, and turned to image the planet, seven of its moons, and its inner rings. Image credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech/SSI The second image is a false color reconstruction of the vortex of Saturn's north polar storm. Measurements have sized the eye at 1,250 miles across with cloud speeds as fast as 330 miles per hour. Image credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech/SSI. Finally, a false-color composite image, constructed from data obtained by Cassini shows Saturn's rings and southern hemisphere. The composite image was made from 65 individual observations by Cassini's visual and infrared mapping spectrometer in the near-infrared portion of the light spectrum on Nov. 1, 2008. The observations were each six minutes long. Image credit: NASA/JPL/ASI/University of Arizona