I am the scattered cherry blossom
that falls in the spring.
I am the snow that feathers
the top of your head
your shoulders
the tip of your nose.
I kept my daughter’s doll close
pinned to the steel of my cockpit
and called your name
mother.

I HAVE TO wonder where the women’s voices are. Perhaps buried under all those petals of snow. Surely they didn’t agree with sending their sons on suicide missions toward the end of World War II. But isn’t that what we all did when we sent our sons to war? The only difference was our boys were taught to kill, theirs were taught to die.