The Girl from No Gun Ri
During the Korean War, on July 26-29, 1950, around 250 to 400 South Korean refugees were killed in a US air attack and fire from the 7th Cavalry Regiment at a bridge near the village of No Gun Ri. The US military, fearing North Korean infiltrators in disguise, ordered soldiers to shoot South Korean refugee groups.
I.
I was sixteen when they came
war had broken out and girls
were the price of cigarettes
older women swung scythes
like broken teeth at soldiers
who were said to — the girls
so I hid in an urn in the dark
waiting for history to pass
my name was Park Hee-Sook
I wore my hair long in a braid
tipped with a rippling ribbon
smooth as the flow of red blood
II.
my playground became a battleground
and we gathered our skirts to flee
home became a fistful of objects
pounding its dirge on my back
the communists are coming they said
you must move out or die they said
in the sun everything was too hot
I can’t breathe the Americans
said keep walking I cannot
III.
then the sky split and the universe
was a crematory
flaring
everything was in pieces
mother
father sister home
body leg arm head
earthclod cattle burning
where am I
human meat we are all
on fire
IV.
orphaned in a day, I wear
the torn bodies of the dead,
hiding from a horde
of black bullets
I hear blood gurgle and burst
in the strafed tunnels,
a cacophony of flies
feed on swollen flesh
my throat burns like paper
in the dark, I don’t know
if I’m drinking
water or blood
if I stay I will die
if I leave I will die
if I die I will die
I run out
V.
an American waves me forward
and men clamber out of their holes
I say Hello Hello
the only English word I know
Hello my whole family
has been killed
it is hell in there Hello
I cry coated in blood
I scream Hello Hello
and pound on their chests
you said you would save us
Hello
I am red ribboned with
the dark hands of death
as they hold me shaking
in their arms
Hello I cry
to the living and dead
as I weep all the bones
from my body
VI.
In the village, the nights
have burning blue eyes
I cannot stop my own eyes
from drowning.
The watchmen remember
my wracking with wails
as ghosts clog my throat
with their names.
Before the war ends
I walk back to the bridge
and search for remains
of my father
I scoop up his flesh
in the cup of my hands
and bury him
far from his home
O my father rest here
in the dark of the earth
as I braid your spirit
from the past
O my father hide here
in the mouth of the land
as we wait
for history to pass
A Quiet Terror
You watched us, hair catching
and shining like flags
on the stiff slivers of the bamboo.
As children, we laughed
as we danced through the leaves.
The park was so bright
and you feared it.
You followed us, descending
like darkness and dew,
mistrusting a childhood of joy.
That sound—was it death’s cloak,
snagging on a twig,
or merely a ray of light flinching?
When he pressed the switchblade
to your throat, you were young
and a stranger to blood.
So you followed us, softly,
so as not to be seen,
and yet to make sure
we weren’t murdered.
Sometimes I look back
at your pale, anguished face,
a white doe surrounded by hounds.
Time tried to gnaw out
your eyes; you filled them
with patience and patience…
You were worn out with waiting
for us to return, before
any of us had left.
You were gone, you gasped,
jolting in your sleep.
I said, I’m right here,
and drew close.
Other nights, it is I
who start up in my sleep,
tears lying damp
on my cheeks.
Umma, I whisper, in pain,
but softly, to preserve
your few dreams.
