1933: The Occupation
Whenever the Japanese soldiers
made their rounds,
my great grandmother and her sisters
hid—under couches, beds, in the basement
or the storage closet—
for stories of the girls
being taken and never coming back
were more than rumors.
And we all know what happened
to the girls who were
taken.
Her husband was
taken, sent to Japan for labor
instead. Young men
shipped away and carted off
to construction sites or munition
factories, to coal mines turning
their lungs inky black.
No one knows where he ended up.
Perhaps he died
in a construction accident,
a strike
to the back of his head
from falling debris.
Maybe deep in the mines,
the toxic air
gnawing away
at his rotting lungs—
first the everlasting cough, then
waking up in a pale body
soaked in sweat, moonlight, red hot
like the coal he seeks
Or maybe the atomic bomb
ended his life.
My great grandmother waited
five, ten, fifteen, twenty
years for him to return.
I see her every time
I wear a simple hanbok.
It’s always late
and she’s always just finished
washing dishes,
shaking out the towel
after hanging her apron
to dry, shriveled
fingers always stained
red like the jujubes hanging
from her garden trees.
made their rounds,
my great grandmother and her sisters
hid—under couches, beds, in the basement
or the storage closet—
for stories of the girls
being taken and never coming back
were more than rumors.
And we all know what happened
to the girls who were
taken.
Her husband was
taken, sent to Japan for labor
instead. Young men
shipped away and carted off
to construction sites or munition
factories, to coal mines turning
their lungs inky black.
No one knows where he ended up.
Perhaps he died
in a construction accident,
a strike
to the back of his head
from falling debris.
Maybe deep in the mines,
the toxic air
gnawing away
at his rotting lungs—
first the everlasting cough, then
waking up in a pale body
soaked in sweat, moonlight, red hot
like the coal he seeks
Or maybe the atomic bomb
ended his life.
My great grandmother waited
five, ten, fifteen, twenty
years for him to return.
I see her every time
I wear a simple hanbok.
It’s always late
and she’s always just finished
washing dishes,
shaking out the towel
after hanging her apron
to dry, shriveled
fingers always stained
red like the jujubes hanging
from her garden trees.
May 2024
Sarah Parmet is a high school junior from Los Angeles who lives off caffeine, adrenaline and (very little) sleep. When she’s not struggling in physics, she can be found writing and producing music. She is a columnist for The Milking Cat humor magazine, and her work has been published in Apprentice Writer and Levitate.
Art: Asclepias Fascicularis Kat Cervantes