Angela Kwon, In Safe Hands, 2017
Digital media
When her body trapped beneath the car fell still, when the walls
of her suffering softened and cleared, what passed through her
was not exactly a tongue, not exactly a tune, but it rang, if you
can call what it did ringing, and bore her up, held her, in what you
could call arms, and bade her look upon the scene: the
desperation with which he threw himself to the ground, the harm
he then did to the earth with his hands and voice to dig her out;
but it wasn’t until she saw the children sitting by the road that
what had fluttered in her body finally spoke
not exactly a song, or a moan, but a distant flung sound.