In Seoul, the streets burst with people. Brightly colored banners in chopstick languages Hang on poles that slither up to heaven like Babel’s Tower. But I am not in Seoul. I am on the Jeju Island Far from the faceless homogeny that permeates the mainland. Here is the last vestige of haggard faces That still remember the Old Ways. My mother is a mermaid With waterfall hair that glints obsidian And has blades instead of hands. She has fought jellyfish and sharks Like tigers that prowled in anci...