Girl in a Kimono
by R.J. Tierney
She’s a young girl, dark hair short and swinging
just above her shoulders. It looks
even softer than the flowers
embroidered on her kimono, pink. The flowers are
white with rounded petals.
The girl’s scarlet obi seems tied too tightly. Surely
she’s too young to have a waist?
Her eyes are ink-dark
in her pale face, but bright,
as if she’s visible because of light within.
Wooden geta make her steps small,
but not hesitant. She moves carelessly
and elegantly
from stall to stall,
smiling at the noh masks,
laughing when her net misses the goldfish,
putting her hands over her mouth as
she watches a man swallow fire.
She turns for a moment and I realize
the back of her hair is pulled up and held in place by
white pearls that have a strange sheen in the firelight,
shimmering as though underwater.
Suddenly, she hurries away
up a path glowing with lanterns.
It’s almost time for the hanabi, but
she goes farther and farther away,
a rosy apparition heading up the mountain.
I want to follow. She shouldn’t go
alone. But it’s dangerous.
I can’t see her anymore. And
as the first boom spills light over my shoulders,
I turn back, taking my shadow with me.
The air is seeded with smells:
smoke, citrus, takoyaki.
The matsuri continues as if the girl was never there.