That Woman, she!
It is the knit in that woman’s heart
that holds her hip together
the somewhat hurried yarn
going through the phases of her pain
It is the clumsiness of her own hands
that puts a smile before her sanity
those steps dazed with moonlight kiss
and a work of will
She makes no sounds except for her breath
that rubs shoulders with winds
and it is the curves on her back
that suffers her life’s pull
She sees beneath the piles of truth
that her existence is none tied to a man
She feels beyond those words
Love for one’s self begins it all
When she fills her throat with laughter
she floods the stench of grief away
not forgetting, no!
but shoving them past a fair grin
a flawed make of perfection.
(c) Naa Takia