The Time of War
Jennifer Choi

raindrops struck the window, crackling softly.
the radio hissed as the anchor announced
the war’s end, a voice carrying joy & relief
from an impossibly distant place.

i thought of soldiers marching in long lines,
disappearing over dark hills. the smell
of freshly baked baguettes spilled across
the dining table.

but unease, a curtain left
hanging in the air. eventually,
life would grow back—plants, children,
water lilies bowing in the darkness,
or a crumpled shirt flattened into place.

teachers, hunters,
people like them would begin their lives anew.

yet i remained,
like a torn curtain still fluttering.

my mother believed humans came from fish.
she could never bring herself to believe the war had truly ended.

some never returned.
some returned only halfway.
i smelled the cold steel of spent guns,
ate soup, said prayers,
flipped through the calendar, disbelieving
it had only been two years.
the belly of a gutted fish spilled its pearls.
my aging mother, lucid only at times,
called my name;

“palm tree, clean sprout
born with a different shoe—
look at this, isn’t it beautiful?”

“God always waits for us
just beyond our reach,” she whispered.

she spent most days lying down,
while the chair left outside soaked
in rain. the news spoke of looters
growing bold now that the war had ended.

april would come soon, & we’d have food again.
i spoke daily with neighbors.

“leave this town,” someone said.
“you’re young—life in the city
has to be better than here.”

my mother murmured in her bed,
her shape slowly becoming fishlike.

“mother, lambs were born in the stable,” i told her.
“how strange. could it be a sign of God?”

“they’re only sorrow,” she replied,
“runaways from the neighbor’s poverty.”

“this life feels like hell,” she muttered.
“we’re not even close to hell yet,” i answered.

snow fell in april.
how strange it was.
i returned to school,
watched the ruins around us rise again.

in a narrow stream,
a few small fish were swallowed
by a larger one.