By Chua, Richelle Aubrey Ang
… see the flesh underneath,
hemispherical kiwi slice, perfectly rough on the surface.
i do not have to tread through layers upon layers of
snow white hair (i, your magic mirror, to tell you that you are
these? worry lines—
boiling hot material &
mantle mechanisms cut the crust open,
hills that came spitting out of
the core of the earth, swallowed up in one, then
two swift chugs of sweet carbonated coke
papa, these are not your college days when you sit in
wakefulness to draw yet another blueprint, the sugar rush to keep
you company. you map out the coordinates at the back
of my hands, grooves that stretch
skin-tight to saggy to-
… sometimes i sit in wonder
(sipping coke in hand) and reminisce
about your trips to outer space,
taking nothing but your brute
strength (fished out the sun with one
hand and a couple of nebula stars with
the other) … even gravity couldn’t
drag your sun-bright smile down
poof! you are the fairy godmother
sitting at a spinning wheel stool,
axis tilted at about 45 degrees.
the spindle needle is not a lifelong curse
but instead, your lifeline.
prick! the little vial sits empty
at palm of coarse hand.
… and as i sit in your place
to weave and piece and stitch
the blueprint of your life together, and
breathe life to these cold, buried words,
the thimble shakes furiously.
i am not a great seamstress but
i slot the thimble back in,
Richelle is a struggling Science student by day and a curiously coping confessionalist at night. She takes inspiration from and often writes about family, love, and the teenager spirit. In the future, she hopes to publish her own poetry collection.
Image: @matheusferrero via Unsplash