Obon Odori by Diana Martinez

Obon Odori
by Diana Martinez

She holds the brightly colored fan
The silvery white cranes
spread between her fingers.
The long brown wooden ribs
attached to the paper,
as if it were webbing,
Holds it all together.


Her nimble fingers
spinning the fan into the air,
small feet tapping
to the beat of the Roiko drums.
Her tightly wrapped kimono spacing her steps.
The red paper lanterns boxing the wind.

For the Obon Odori, she would forget farm work for a day,
forget the dark wash
soaking in the round wooden tub,
nor would she be concerned about the money
she would spend
eating sweet mochi
in pastel paper cups.

The Obon Odori
festival for the dead
would end
the summer of rehearsals in the hall,
of dropping the fans,
trying to keep time with the children,
sweat dropping off the faces as they practiced.

The older women seemed oblivious
to the movement of the children,
They were caught up in their own music,
wrapped up in their memories of practice,
Arms swaying graciously in time,
with drums beating,
faces with no expression.