|Jan/Feb 2004 • Poetry|
Even now, like Eve, she is hungry still.
Yesterday, in the garden, she watched
him bent over his task,
the clean line of his back
against the white sky, the rope
winding his wrists, yielding the trowel.
She felt a loosening in her bones
sprawled among the dahlias, thick black
ants traveling the inside of her arm,
the sticky bottom of a wineglass.
At dinner, she yields a knife,
presses her thigh against his,
pulls the blade across the soft pillow
of her thumb, is satisfied with blood.
Even still he is gentle, tenuous,
running his tongue over her lips,
rubs his fingers over her center.
Waits for her to come.
She wants him to take an ax to her,
to this forest of dryads chiming in her head—
to push her against the elm tree,
spread her like fruit, leave bruises.
Wants him to rip this screaming thing,
from her blood, leave her for dead.
The serpent coils and coils.