The odors of the Second World War wander,
through the jagged edges
of broken windows and shattered portraits.
It spreads along the streets,
violent, and unrelenting, like waves on the coast.

It pulls us underneath, it forces down our throats.
We struggle, we breathe, we drown,
all at the executive order of the crown.

The current spits us into crowded cages
And they celebrate “another threat off the pages!”

What is the American spirit you so prize?
Is it bitter like daffodils?
Putrid like disguise?
Is it the barbed wire that guards liberty?
Is it the gavels that ensure equality?
The rustle of guns that protect discipline?

The concentration camps that shelter citizens?

“Oh, do not be an idiot,” they say,
believing the meek Japanese cannot disobey.
The sweet odors pin us down and make us cease,
etherized by a passive hope for “peace”.
But that time will not come, not unless we fight.

Our next generation deserves a light.
The pigeon has been plucked to the last feather.
It’s now or not.
Now or never.
The line must be drawn, let it be known
The Japanese American
is American.