
In My Dear Yeast (Milk & Cake Press, 2024), Melanie Hyo-In Han masterfully guides readers far and wide, entering diverse terrains of both landscape and interiority. Han employs a variety of forms to her advantage as well, demonstrating a knowledge of poetics and a courage to approach reality from unexpected, and sometimes challenging, angles. With memory as her painter’s palette and words as her paintbrush, Han shares remarkable and moving truths throughout her debut full length collection.
Home is a central theme throughout My Dear Yeast, grounding Han’s speaker during difficult times. As a Third Culture Kid (TCK), Han can self-identify through multiple geographies. “Waiting for Water in Morogoro,” for example, exhibits incredible detail on daily life in Tanzania. Han invites readers to smell the spices of a mother’s sukuma wiki and feel her speaker’s “red-dirt heels / that have cracked / like the ground” (Han 3). Such sensory descriptions demonstrate how significant a role the body plays with memory and creating an idea of home, whether that home is remembered in a positive, negative, or more nuanced light.
Later in the collection, Han brings readers to Seoul. The poem “Stacked Memories” starts off right away with images of
“Hustle and bustle of lunchtime at Gwangjang Market. Fried chicken feet splayed out,
curled at the ends, rows of hanging chilis in different shades of summer sunset, dried
whole squids piled flat on top of one another, every tentacle preserved and intact.” (Han 23)
The specificity here is both honest and stunning. Han’s attentiveness and precision across diverse landscapes is unique in the contemporary literary landscape, where so many writers feel pressure to hone in on one singular theme, identity-marker, or experience in order to find depth. Han, on the other hand, achieves both quality and quantity with care and skill.
Some of the maps Han uses to interrogate and explore are linguistic in nature. “Abecedarian in 한글 (Hangul)” puts a clever spin on a form popular in the English language. Instead of each line starting with the letters of the English alphabet in order, Han uses the fourteen consonants of the Korean alphabet. Even more inventive, and since the majority of the poem is in English, individual words are written using both alphabets together. For example, lines start with “ㄴineteen-nineteen” and “ㅅurvival” (Han 36). The hybridity of language employed throughout My Dear Yeast is delightful to explore; they additionally speak to Han’s successes as a translator. Whether readers know Han’s languages or not, the poems ring authentic and powerful.
And yet, home is always a question; at times, what constitutes home for Han is up for interpretation. Other times, when it’s in her grasp, it can later devolve or vanish. “Holding On,” at the heart of the collection, uses a consistent and neat form to allow the speaker access to traumatic memories. Each stanza, placed at a distance from one other, starts very plainly: “in the house at” followed by latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates (Han 20-21). The curious reader like me will pause to look up where these homes are located, to see how they too are scattered across the globe. Because of the emotional intensity of “Holding On,” Han uses an entirely lowercase lettering. She shares what she didn’t know, what she never realized, and what she had to do to survive. The quieter, more intimate tone demonstrates the trust Han is putting in the readers hands, as if she were revealing secrets to an old friend.
The collection ends with “Tell me 사랑해,” a poem that directly acknowledges the speaker’s desire. She craves connection, and despite having lived all over the world, she’s found it, often. But family, even when close, can feel far away. Almost entirely in the voice of the speaker’s grandmother, italicized lines signal all the ways a matriarch expresses love without saying so explicitly:
“Have you eaten? I’ll make you 순두부 next time you come home.
Make sure you pay your 집세 on time.
You should read this article about happiness. You’ve been looking 우울해 lately.
Do you have enough warm clothes? Why do you never wear enough layers?” (Han 42).
The list goes on, and the poem lands with the speaker replying back, or perhaps more accurately, confessing her desire to the reader:
“It was her way of letting me know
that she cared, but all I
ever wanted was to hear “사랑해.” (Han 42)
This final admittance is an act of vulnerability and bravery earned through the pages of My Dear Yeast that precede it. Through poetic excellence and the excavation of her own memories, she speaks plainly here. The last line is the culmination of all Han’s experiences, emotions, and homes. Hearing “사랑해” (I love you), Han asserts, is home.
My Dear Yeast is available at Milk Cake Press
Livia Meneghin (she/her) is the author of the chapbook Honey in My Hair and the Sundress Publications Reads Editor. She earned a Writers’ Room of Boston Poetry Fellowship, Breakwater Review’s 2022 Peseroff Prize, and Second Place in The Room Magazine’s 2023 Poetry Contest. Her writing has found homes in Gasher, Thrush, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. She earned her MFA from Emerson College, where she now teaches writing and literature. She is a cancer survivor.

















