A husband is, as it should
be, the first
Immigrant of his wife’s
flesh.
He believes, as it should be,
to be the only migrant to her soul.
A prowling lion in him dies
as she turns
a stone flower.
When he strokes her chin, his
mind
wanders elsewhere.
When he disturbs her morning
sleep it is
for his bed-coffee.
He treats her the way a
seasoned priest
does the idol.
She is not a deer to a lion,
to lie as
soulless, listless.
Maybe some prowling lion
would step in
to plunder her.
Ask her why she takes a
libertine,
Whether his are palms or
claws,
Whether his fingers forks or
hoes, how she,
A mouse, bears him, a lion.
To assuage the world and
herself that she is
Not a stone flower, she does
so.
21.11.2002
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