We were splinters, cracked from the flesh of dark Elysium
in a fell holy stroke. I am no rib-molded thing, second always.
I never hated Adam, but he was simple, pliable. His heavy eyelids spasmed
as our bodies heaved in and on each other, warm. God is not a man.
Have you been told not to eat of the fruit?
Leaves swollen with shade. Apricot skins melting my teeth, sweet and
stringy. God waiting in my throat.
Paradise: Trap.
Have you been told not to eat of the fruit?
When Adam asked me to carry his child, I said no.
Wings grew from the insect of my spine.
Have you been told not to eat of the fruit?
The garden sank and the sky reached down.
I swallowed cold air and flew.
The angels clawed at my legs, but they couldn’t drag me back
and I had never felt closer to my Maker.
Have you been told not to eat of the fruit? Oh, but I have already tasted it.