Indigo sky above with a sliver of a crescent moon—-
Aimi can move freely—almost invisible–away from the glaring
daylight where she hears the village wenches
whisper–mosquitoes in her ear. They covet her silk
kimonos and the bounty of combs in her raven hair.
She is Aimi the royal courtesan and yet. . .
Aimi can’t wait for her hair to fade, her breasts to drop and
her lips to wrinkle like a dried plum.
She dreams of the days and nights when she stays in her
room and writes, tanka, haiku and prose. She sees and tastes
too much of the world. . .and knows too many secrets.
a silver moth
wings in the night
window and screen