Letter of Complaint to World War Two
In my life I have loved two women
and you knew them both before I did:
seduced one and tried to kill the other.
Sachiko adored you.
Her father a Tokyo mafioso, a gang boss, a yakuza;
you must have been proud of him, he
followed that Rising Sun
that big old blood red meatball
through Mongolia and Singapore, later
ran military construction in Taiwan.
Your air raids were wonderful.
Everybody fussed over her in the shelters;
she always had extra toys.
One of my father’s aides
took me to the hospital every day,
to sing for the wounded soldiers.
I jumped from bed to bed
until they clapped and cheered.
I'm sure they hated me!
When you were over.
the family was repatriated to Kyushu,
an area you had savaged.
No homes, barely any food.
One day a new girl came to school
in a bright yellow dress
carrying a shiny tin lunch box stuffed with
freshly made rice balls,
American candy.
Those other kids
beat the shit out of me
and the teacher helped.
Tore my dress apart, smeared
mud and dirt all over me.
Took my lunch.
Called my father a criminal.
Now she is Spike.
Lives alone in Manhattan,
paints large canvases,
will not talk to other Japanese:
but still speaks of you fondly.
Marta was born on the Baltic Sea
In a house on a beach
behind a strip of pines,
in front of a birch forest;
descended from the
Northern warrior women.
Do you remember?
You shot at her in 1939, asshole,
on the way to Saxony,
and again three years later
crossing a river below Munich,
helping her parents push a hand cart
through Europe.
Her father spoke six languages,
ran a DP camp, forged the papers
that took them here.
Marta learned unaccented English within one year,
willfully disremembering Latvian and German.
We were born one week apart.
I remember you perfectly,
every victory, every scrap metal drive.
She will not recall your face
except when pictures of refugees and wagons
fleeing Saigon
Kosovo
Somalia
Darfur
Syria
flash on a screen without warning.
But we are here and you are not.
We have outlived you,
my warrior woman and I,
my fierce pagan love.
(This appeared in my most recent book, Furusato.)
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