At the memorial,
you asked me to read the plaques:
the Philippines,
Malaysia,
Burma,
Korea and
Guam.
We stood at the top of the cliff where,
during the battle,
Okinawans had been forced to
jump to their deaths.
The unwavering gunmetal sheet
of sky split open
into unabated torrents, soaking
the earth until water lay above,
a current surging over the path stones,
a stream gushing into the sea.
In tombs’ ashes, the ghosts
are still caught between living and dead,
reignited in each land mine
that is exhumed from the strata
of parking lots,
And seventy years later,
we are standing
where our grandfathers
had been.