War: A Ghazal

Luisa A. Igloria

Nov 7

I know my mother's mother only by her old-fashioned name, like a flower or a sweet twist of bread. She died in the war  that came to our islands, but mercifully wasn't taken by force  as many young girls were— marched away in that war  at the thrust of bayonet points while brothers, fathers and uncles were herded into camps as prisoners of war.  Childen who survived are grandparents now. Many still won't buy products from the country that invaded us in that war.  A song sinks a barb into the wound that has not healed. You would remember how the earth smelled during the war—  like rusted metal and the sky's chemical haze. Children's cries are the most piteous. Pray it will be swift, their suffering in this terrible war.