Iris Chang, author of The Rape of Nanking, died on November 11, 2004.
1.
Sick to Death
At dead of night she woke, unmoved
By the crickets, moon, and stars;
From old they sang or shone above
The fire and rape of wars.
Then pity was a crumpled child,
Kindness a battered womb,
And all the world one genocide,
The grave her living room.
2.
Iris
The iris by my walk is bold,
Its purples almost black,
And stems and petals always bleed
Before the sheathings crack.
She took her life to lift the veil
Of grief–and still, I’ll bet
That most will never remember
What Iris could not forget.