h1

Geisha

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,

still,

as she was in my father’s house,

silent,

like my father,

the pain of their journey

kept inside.

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