Her Hands Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Her hands

We all judge; so did I.

Her dress at her work much of ware for the night,
In nightwear, sleepwear, nightclothes-nightdress.

With her job, rubbing, touch and massage
The message was blur, in parlour it’s happened.

Medicine is the time; I know her clear.
Believer in own way: “God is kind and great.”
Loves the words and poems: “The Persian is better.”

With her hands on my corpse
Kept silent, felt ashamed.
Of past thought about her:
“She chose this on purpose.”
“Erotic” not only my doctor.