-1Persephone and the Pomegranate, Eve and the Apple, Mary and Christ

(i persephone)

Hunger is a faculty only shared by women, like
the child Persephone curled in the pewter-powdered
caves of Tartarus weeping, and with each blink of
her swollen eyes she finds herself nakedly wandering
above; the saffron of her womanhood ripe, as any
child, unplucked. Though, these are not the gardens
of her mother's breasts. These are the not ravenous
slit-holes of pulp berating her for her hesitation.

All she sees is darkness, fingers coil around her throat,
sucking dry scarletted teeth. Hades is a mere shadow; a
mere direction that she is destined to walk.

He holds a pomegranate eye level; lapping loose
souls spherically all around them, and the sound -
perhaps Orpheus' lute - licking the lavender remembrance
deep in the pit of her stomach, aching.

Holding the succulent destiny in her burned fingers
she slides her lips along the crease, folding fate into
the corner of her slanting eyes, she bites down.

(ii eve)
Damnation is akin to the first soft moments when her
ribs were still tucked deep inside Adam's body; tucked
like a memory, like a reclusive secret, like a harbor where
the winds sway favorably, and she is at the helm, harrowing.

Her eyes are meteors. Her lips twisted shrapnel.

She is the first portrait. The first hint of betrayal, and
destruction. Thorny, as any steam, devoid of equality,
inbred from something greater. She is something
dangerous, and like Olympia, serpents slither about
her. Curling themselves around her thighs, then her
naiveté, because women were made to attract dead
and dark things about their personage, like extravagant
harpies deflowering equality as though it were a violation.

She saw the apple long before she felt the desire to take it;
and upon having it, she licks her lips like any wet dream,
her hair, a limp plume all around her while she bites down.

(iii mary)

All summer long she has meandered bare foot
across the Jewish desert; spit upon, destitute, with
only the boney arms of Joseph to keep her safe, save
the bloom across her abdomen; save the faculty of
hunger, where she (a women) has starved for the weight
of seed, and child, and the honey milk of her body
undrunk.

She looks on Bethlehem, then looks away.

Her hands fall across her swollen center, moans
ejaculate from her lips like rain, scorching the land
in idolatry. But she will not scream, instead she bites
it back; she will show nothing. Swallowing each grasp
of cordiality and wiping at her eyes with sore fingers.

In the barn she lowers herself; hands braided across herself -
still, she will not scream, though her fingers soon curl
into the dirt.

Then, he slides from her womb, tiny and cacophonous;
a boy born with the face of a man, with the face of destiny,
and later, he will pick wild flowers, kissing the salty earth,
take a wife, and lay himself across her in the grips of
death.

Death, hot and gratuitous, like the child-bed.
Ill-fated, though predetermined, like the ghost
of a girl taking something forbidden in her hand
and sucking it dry.