VIEW by Erin Schalk

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.