Resistance

They sat on the grass. Young Li and Madam Chu.
He will read her his poetry. She will talk to him about it.
He’d written it in a small notebook. Bound with linen.
With ties that fell around his wrist. Pale skin.

His fingers flipped the pages. The last poem.
He wrote it last night. While anxious of this meeting.
Madam Chu, his mentor. He always wore good shirt and trousers.
He smelled pleasantly of cream and soap. She nodded and he started.

It was a poem about a journey. From Taipei to Taichung.
Young Li waved his hands. There were mountains and beaches.
There were lines about the breeze and the train. And the birds.
When he finished, Madam Chu was inspecting her painted fingernails.

It was an early sunny morning. The grass wet with dew.
Made little dark marks on Young Li’s trousers. Tickled Madam Chu’s feet.
The wind. The tree above them swayed its youngest branches.
And fell its oldest leaves. Young Li looked to the sky.

The starched blue collar of his shirt. His neck, fresh skin.
He lay on the grass. The linen book to the side.
There were lines about the peony that sat on her bosom. Soft.
About the tea cups that touched her lips. Her dark slit eyes.

About her tangerine fingernails and her smile. Her hair.
Puffed, short, framing a face that escorted his fantasies. The sweet cum.
The runny milk, glistening, dried on the sheets. With his sweat and sighs.
The scent of her douche. Her ageing feet.

“I want you to kiss me, Madam Chu. From Taipei to Taichung.
A hundred and thirty kilometers of spit and squelch. My lips and yours.
Slither your tongue under my nose. I pucker on your ivory chin.
Don’t fondle me when I kiss you. My penis has not ripen.”

The sunshine warmed Young Li’s forehead. The soles of his feet felt cold.
Madam Chu read his poetry, her eyes wide. He gave no resistance.
He let her. There were lines she would never let him.
When she finished he was frail. His sweat evaporated with the dew.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
December 28, 2013

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