In the stench of my mind, and in cold arms of my mother, I heard them marching to the dormitory door, as she told me that they wanted to silence their songs probe their bodies, and their hands belonged to the kitchen. I heard my loved ones fitful, screaming out names into the night, drowning in nightmare sweat, and the fearful morning would bring a search into every face. I wonder where that friendly soldier is now, the one that picked me up high on his broad shoulders for the press shot on victory day. That night, my father made me cry for kissing that soldier's cheek but, but they told me to and I was always taught to obey. I was five. |
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