The Night of Pearl Harbor

I imagine my mother that night,
listening to the radio,
Glenn Miller’s String of Pearls,
Edward R. Murrow wishing the world
good night and good luck
then breaking news…
the bombing of Pearl Harbor.
My mother’s hands are folded
on the mound that is me,
that pulsating cord connecting us.
I wonder if I know her fear,
feel the tightening, the terror,
the anger, suppressed
because of the child in her belly.
She feels me moving beneath her dress,
and thinks of Japanese mothers
and their babies soon to be born,
as I will be born three months later.
I have not yet lived long enough
to see world peace.
So many never have the chance.