WOMAN IN REPOSE

by Sarojni Mehta-Lissak

It's late August and the sun
drips a wet heat on the city
below. Desperate figures move
along a cement causeway like a
trail of ants in search of food.
Shock masks grief on the faces of
those seeking higher ground; fear
follows along, for this is their
new companion as hours melt into
days, leaving hope behind.

A woman lies in repose, bloated
skin tight over her frame, flesh
bulging around the watch on her
wrist. Her head rests on its side
as if in deep slumber, and her legs
extend forward like tines on a fork.

She's dead. And nobody came to save
her. Death took her first and deposited
her on a bridge for the world to see,
for a country to witness from afar.

Survivors press on...

I watch on my TV in utter disbelief,
The American Diaspora fanning out to
unknown destinations, while those left
behind begin to die from the heat, or
drown from the flood of tainted waters.