He beat me with the hem of a kimono

worn by a Japanese woman

this prized

painted

wooden statue

carved to perfection

in Japan or maybe Hong Kong.

She was usually on display

in our livingroom atop his bookshelf

among his other overseas treasures

I was never to touch.

She posed there most of the day

her head tilted

her chin resting high

her black hair

piled high on her haid

her long slim neck bared

to her shoulders.

An invisible hand

under the full sleeve

clasped her kimono

close to her body

its hem flared

gracefully around her feet.

The hem made fluted red marks

on these freckeld arms my shoulders my back.

The head inside his fist made camel

bumps on his knuckels.

I prayed for her

that her pencil thin neck

would not snap

or his range would be unendurable.

She held fast for me

didn't even chip or crack.

One day, we were talking

as we often did the morning after.

Well, my sloe-eyed beauty, I said

have you served him enough?

I dared to pick her up with one hand

I held her gently by the flowing robe

around her slender legs.

She felt lighter than I had imagined.

I stroked her cold thighs

with the tips of my fingers

and felt a slight tremor.

I carried her into the kitchen and wrapped her

in two sheets of paper towels

We're leaving

I whispered you and I

together.

I placed her

between my clothes in my packed suitcace.

That is how we left him

forever.

Mitsuye Yamada