His Woman

          Unnerving tranquility,

the kind where the leaves hold their breath

and the wind relents, a hush prevailing,

if only for a moment, prolonged

and swollen, like that eternal hour

we’ve all come for, dogged and wise,

in rags, alone.


          The woman’s legs are filthy.

I heard she crawled through miles of sludge

to tell me something.


          As the wind dies its flash of a death,

and the leaves inhale sharply,

and the world is awaiting, I lean in,

beckon her to show me

the pearl of a choice.


          Pray, do

tell me, what shall I do?



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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020


BC, Canada