Genesis.
born from your rib
an extension of you.
mother, multiplied.
VIII, III, I
the second coming was born
and then she grew,
older, wiser, more curious.
touching and eating –
things which i shouldn’t have
get your hands out from there
i felt too much, too soon
perhaps this is my original sin.
and what does a sinner deserve,
but punishment.
but lashings of the tongue, acidic
enough to break down the grime,
which you accumulated in your sleep.
until one day you shall wake,
your curious fingers extended,
extending an olive branch
for whom is so cold that they’re
left un-seduced by sour grapes?
let the limbs into your mouth.
let the salt wash over you
cleansing, those lashing-wounds
not healed, as of yet
but creating the stench of fresh blood,
no more.
