At twenty-two, I slept in between

our omma and unni

for the first time in our shared lives.

***

At five, I wrote a letter to Santa Claus and asked him to bring me

a sandwich and chips on Christmas day.

A small ask to nourish a big craving.

***

Together on our backs, I realized this was the sandwich I craved all along.

Our unni and I compared leg lengths like little girls, sizing up each body part just to make sure we were really a genetic match,

sisters.

The proof was stored in our shared widow’s peaks,

beauty marks,

rounded teeth I would have never squared through western orthodontics

if I would have known just how perfect our smiles already were.

Our breasts hung wide, held in the fat of our armpits.

Mons pubis’ rounded like the tombs of our ancestors.

Lower backs flattened against the ground, pressing our bums into even

flatter

pancakes. They didn’t have much rise, but they were more delicious

when paired together.

If our omma was pretty, then we were pretty too.

Our unni and I took turns complimenting her, so we too could get a taste

of self pride.

In secrecy we played.

Three women, three surnames,

temporarily housed in the quiet valleys of Cheongpyeong,

I finally craved for

nothing.