“Pretty,” he said, brushing the golden apples absently.
I kissed him – but not the way I did before –
Being pierced through the heart by the one who gave them to me.
Never play word-games with Christians, they’re superstitious,
Truly believing in Serpents and Souls and Apples,
In sunlight stippling Eden’s long-ago leaves
And Jehovah’s moon asleep in the fork of the Tree.
Between my husband’s heart and mine stretches a silver chain;
I left him easily enough, but it pulls and pulls sometimes.
The links that make our chain are dainty fine:
A break in any one and the pain may end me.
“I am the serpent in your Eden,” I said
– so much throw-away imagery –
But my lover stared at me and stepped away.