9100
A woman wants
a rock to her nation,
the perfect sense
when all else is cloudy.
With a man
she can scream loudly,
cleansing her mind
of toxic self doubt.
Instead of a roundabout
she is straightforward
like an avenue,
lending her body to avenues.
Migrative moves,
she walks like him,
the shadow of a husband,
married to his nature.
A ligature are the two,
rooted to stay grounded,
rose for a rose,
delicate literatures.
They conjure peace for the other,
flaws vanished,
not the perfect bandits,
but well enough together.
-Jg
