Poetry by Heather Hauck (Summer 2020 issue)
Dear Birthmother,
Today is my birthday
I took an afternoon walk along the Han River
where I stopped to peer over the edge
of the low concrete bridge
Below me a sea of black-haired
mothers bobbing in the midday heat
a glance up from a familiar face –
high cheekbones round moon face
I want to believe that was you birthmother
but instead it felt like a painful reminder
of another year gone
Have you looked for me?
I’ve always searched for you
inside the crowded stalls of Dongdaemun market
in the brown eyes of wrinkled faces
Among the stone Buddhist temples
In the vials and swabs of my DNA
yet –
I am still
your missing daughter
For nine months
you gave me life inside
your womb
And birthed me out of trauma, out of han
that
seethed
deep inside the
wounds of our damaged bodies
And each year on my birthday
when I’m alone
in the stillness of the night
I let myself dream of
jeong, a deep mother-daughter
love
And I wonder if I believe
in possibility
Heather Hauck was found in Daegu, South Korea, and was adopted when she was six months old. As an international transracial Korean adoptee and mother she’s mostly interested in exploring the intersections of adoption, motherhood, identity, and race. Her work has appeared in Visible Magazine, Children’s Home Society and Lutheran Social Services of Minnesota, and she was a participant in the 2019 Twin Cities Listen to Your Mother. She lives with her husband and son in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
