Comfort Women

By Ella Kang

Oksun-ah—

Leaping back through fields of gleaming forsythia,

Mother sprawls her arms with a glimpse of grin,

Father returns with a small surprise in his calloused hands,

A sickle lazing on his shoulder. 

Oksun-ah— 

Clutching mother’s hand, terrified to let go,

Yet dragged by the soldiers into—

Trail of innocence, trail of regret.

Never to recover from what I was at the end.

Yearning for freedom.

Just a few weeks… a few months… a few years… 

Hope, a wilted bloom.

“You leave this place only when your soul leaves your body.”

Oksun-ah—

Trail of bristle, trail of ache. 

Never has it been less than hell.

Crawling from thrusting rifles pinning me down,

Screaming for mercy from piercing pain—

White sheets stain bright red,

Mirroring the flag above me,

Waving in triumph,

Taunting my purity.

Filthy animals drooling for flowers in cages,

Slamming and banging bodies until shattered. 

Not anything more than a plaything,

Not anything less than a replaceable ‘thing.’

Across nailed mats, our flesh was torn, 

Painting gardens with pain and grey.

Never have blooming blossoms been trampled so viciously,

Drowned in vain– 

Swallowed by the gaping swamp,

Shackled in grime. 

Early twentieth century,

Smudged in history.

Curtaining the truth, blinding from the weight of shame, 

Cloaking with a steady title of mockery:

Comfort Women. 

By Ella Kang