Manzanar

Los Angeles owned the land at Manzanar,
a wartime suburb built for Japanese.
A long commute, but no one had a car,
just sweeping views, a brisk Sierra breeze.

The buses came in March of ’forty-two,
the barracks freshly painted, all the same.
Retrieving luggage, people that you knew
had worried smiles; the little bow, the shame.

Resentment blew like winter through the floor,
the strain of being careful, every word.
The dust came back each morning, always more.
We’ll live like decent people; dreams deferred.

Whispers fill a prisoner-parent’s ear:
What did you do? Why do they keep us here?

Sonnets