Wife is not a stone flower

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 down 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