Ligature

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