Remember-
You are the daughters of comfort women
Perhaps not.
Perhaps not all.
Perhaps some of us
Are the daughters of happy wives
Perhaps some of the grenade martyrs died
With bile in their mouths
And ‘Mother’ on their lips
That is your story, little white boy
Clutching poppies and rosemary at dawn
This is mine.
Perhaps some of my conquerors
Died scraped-knee, grass-stained boys
Without the scent of a woman on their skin
But-
Some of them went home
To make comfort women of their unhappy wives
Making love to a memory
Of guns, germs, steel
And the stench of death
Making love with our blood on their hands
Our lost childhoods
And our dead babies in the river
Are lost to the history books
But blood is thicker than water
And sticks to the conscience like mud
Lest we forget.
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