Sara Hughes

S a r a  H u g h e s

K i y o k o

I.

Father burned our hut

when I said goodbye. The same

hands that built our home

destroyed it, sheet by

paper sheet. Rage spread dark red

on his sallow cheeks.

Against empty breasts

my half-gaijin baby screamed.

Ashes choked the night.

II.

I left my home torn.

Thomas-san’s baby held tight

to my arms. We sailed.

My husband said Don’t

look back. I did. Asahi’s

mountains sunk into

black ground. America

gave me no freedom. Strangers

whipped me with their tongues.

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