God’s Seed
I know a woman who cleans
dirt off a bar of soap.
Her husband is a clean man,
always smells of Wright’s Coal Tar.
Spends his days on knobby knees,
planting seed against the will
of God’s own wind.
His only mistress is the land —
widely indifferent to his wife,
who dreams of the day when
his manhood ploughs more
than silty soil.
And there they stand,
the strangest of company, waiting
for the other to make a first move.
Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023.
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