Friday, February 20, 2015


Christine Fojas

Voice must flow like lava from the volcano's lip. Hips must sway. The grey must hide in shaded hair. Bare skin given like a gift, after waxing like a maxed out moon. An afternoon of pain for a night of love.

Aroma of flowers and home cooked meals. Heels in the air, toes painted red. The bed is waiting, warm.

After a lifetime of obedience, here is the promise of sin.

An exercise in form