Periphery

​

Periphery stands, perfumed with citrus,

in her harvest jeans, her juvenile vivacity

glinting in her spring-water eyes,

her face - smooth desert mud,

her eyebrows – thistles,

but metropolis stands still, with pocketed hands.

 

Metropolis is full of himself, belittling every chance for

long-term relationship

He likes it dirty,

short and flirty,

Making furrows appear on her disappointed face,

He disappears between the buildings while she

sprouts roots in her place

and her veins are like the farmers path back home.

 

Meanwhile, her jeans tear

and her worn out sandals scorch her heels.

Not looking back, she braids the dry wheat field of her head,

thinking that perhaps his attitude will somehow change.

 

Sometimes her poise rattles him

For a minute, he glances at her,

but still would not seed her.

 

Periphery has not seen him for some time,

And he himself thought she was gone in her prime

But as he was laying there

pleased with himself,

he couldn't help but wonder

whether he was wrong

not paving the way to her heart

when he still had the chance

when she was only scattered huts,

sandy and wild.

 

Now she is in full bloom

and he shows signs of aging.

He tries to stand erect

before she gets too big for him.

But her blouse is municipally buttoned,

and no manipulation fools her,

She knows her own worth,

She explores her own nature

through pots and mattocks,

through her image reflected in a stream,

through the street benches

She paves her way

Shaving off her thick bushes

only for the sake of his love,

or perhaps for discovering

her love

for herself.