Yiska Sighed 1962 Poem by Terry Collett

Yiska sighed.
Benny’s bus
had just gone;
she’d missed

the bus and a
chance to talk
and say goodbye
to him because

Miss G had kept
her in about some
talk of Chopin.
She watched the

bus go from sight.
She began to walk
home thinking of
him, of the kiss she’d

given him lunchtime
break on the sport
field, of how it felt
each time she kissed

him or touched him.
Back at home her
mother was preparing
the evening meal,

a black mood hung
about her head like
a dark rag, what’s
the matter with you?

her mother said.
One of those weeks,
she replied. what
kind of weeks? her

mother said. Deep
depression and a
girly thing, Yiska
said, gazing at her

mother whose facial
features showed
nothing. Get changed
out of your school

clothes and fold them
up, not throw them
everywhere, her
mother said. Yiska

said nothing more,
but walked upstairs
to her room and shut
the door. The room

smelt of polish; her
clothes were neatly
piled on a side chair,
her records were now

returned to the rack
from the floor. She lay
down on her bed after
kicking off her shoes.

She gazed at the ceiling.
She licked her lips.
Maybe part of Benny
was there where she

had kissed him. She
kissed her small palm,
held the dampness there,
then blew it out towards

the window and uttered:
For you Benny. She hid
the photo of Benny he
had given her in between

pages of the Bible her
grandfather had given
her years ago. Her mother
never opened it as she

would have done any
other book or drawer
for some secrets hidden.
She took out the photo

and stared at it. The eyes
stared back; the quiff
of hair, the Elvis smile
Benny had. She kissed it;

held it over left breast,
feel that Benny, she soft
muttered, holding it there.
She wished he was there,

his head laying against
her body some where.