By Alysha Radia

 

A Sestina

 

Hello it is I, 

Writer of many scabs, 

Scabs that hit and scabs that miss,

Those that read them forever more,  

May be moved, they may be not. 

But enlightened they undoubtedly will. 

A question to you, from I, 

The answer to, you must not miss! 

Do you know what are scabs? 

Do not pick, or they’ll bleed more.  

They bleed red, bleed blue they’ll not, 

Unless your name is Kate or Will. 

Well, I’ll tell you more shall I? 

The origin of the word for scabs, 

Comes from the Middle English of the word for ‘cut’, but cute it is not! 

If the slice of a knife penetrates the outer epidermis, which we hope it will miss, 

There’d be no need to fear no more, 

Since cover and clot the wound it will. 

I have a story about scabs, 

Involving a lady prefixed Mrs, not Miss, 

She was slicing an avocado and ripe it was not, 

When off the ball did she take her I, 

The knife glided through its flesh and more! 

The very next day she wrote her will. 

Maybe one day for one of these scabs, 

I will write a legal will, 

To whom shall I bequeath my most prized possessions and who shall I not? 

Who’s consideration shall I give a miss? 

Death will come to others, but not to the immortal, like I, 

Does the afterlife exist, is there anything more? 

The famous phrases they go, do they not, 

Where there is a way, there is a will, 

Less is not more, 

Mark the miss, 

Your stomach us bigger than your I,

And so concludes, another of my SCABs.