lying flat on
a demi-god's knee.
Hell could not have been more obvious.
It was Sunday from the fold of her skirt,
the arch of her brow, and the feel of her...
Twilight rested on her chin like a moth;
the carelessness of which made me grimace.
I delivered a curse in semaphore;
that bled into the configuration
of her curves. She was all but womanly,
with the audacity of a man's spit.
Time thumbed through her wrinkles but she would not
bend to him for repentance. She flourished
like lice amongst other lice. I hated
her D cupped bagpipes, that heaved as she breathed
criticisms while quirking a pinkie.
She was an ill-sung paean, refusing
to croak till the last pinch of salt crumbled
on her defiant palm. How I miss her.
I wonder if she'd still remember me,
call me stubborn, lazy and foolhardy
if I stood by her grave long enough to
listen to her cry from below the ground.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Krisette Yap Sia is a 23 year-old freelance writer. Some of her works can be seen in The Naked Muses (1999-2001), Letters From the Soul (ISBN-0-7951-5160-8), Good Times (P.P.Publishers, VA), Avenue Magazine (Bowmansdale, PA), Poetry Magazine, The Storyteller Magazine, and Locust Magazine.