What Comes After Nine Lives

Kristine Ong Muslim


There are no white apples,

unless you clone them

from your grandmother's hair. 

It is the nature of sin; it takes all

clichéd symbolisms to make a point.


The cold is the same everywhere.  The cat

knows that; it loves the hand which is

certain of where to touch it.  And even if

they say that the dust in its fur comes

from God, it licks itself clean, anyway.


Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.

All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.