Washerwoman Blues, poem published by Douglas Alexander Holiday

It don’t make sense,
building a nuclear weapon
to hurt and kill the same
people like us in the South.
And the Americans will be coming
again, forgetting their own wars
between north and south, forgetting
the fifty-four thousand that died
here between our north and south,
forgetting the villages burned,
forgetting the families destroyed.
So many of our young men will
die, again, if we
war with dem. We lost
so many last time. I lost
husband, sons, nephews,
parts of whole family, jus’
gone. Many have forgotten, but
a few still remember. Men
fighting over land, politics,
whatever. Makes no sense,
an’ here I am trying to
get these stains
out. How many got
to die this time, huh?

Mushrooms don’t seem tuh grow here,
dey jus’ kill here. While I try
tuh get dese stains out, I look
tuh da skies for
da mushrooms tuh appear,
an’ whole towns an’ villages
disappearing, the people going
on pilgrimages tuh find shelter
food an’ safety. Dey Kim wantin’
to kill our Kim. Grown men actin’
worse den children. An’ what about
the children? Doesn’t Pyongyang
know dat it will not be
da only city lef’ standing,
dat its children will not
be the only survivors? Makes
no sense, no sense at all…,
an’ dese stains will never come out.