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?