August 1, 2011

She peers out her glass case

atop the dresser amongst the dusty photos.

Her kimono, unfaded by time,

dignified, formal;

her jet black hair pinned delicately up.

One pale hand holds a fan, folded,

poised by her neck,

a gesture, perhaps,

the other on her hip.

Her fine-boned white face

hints of a smile,

more in the eyes than the lips.

She is shrouded in mystery,


as she was in my father’s house,


like my father,

the pain of their journey

kept inside.


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