Eve, with the lazy serpent
about her night-gazing breasts,
shall sing from Paradise to Paradise.
Every seventh step
a new graveseed is given,
another raven's longing.
She slogs among lilies,
buffalo sage, the night cactus,
wounded in her threading.
Man has bitten too long on your bitter folds.
Strike him from your scarlet.
Eve, your rubescent womb
leans too far the father,
lilts too near his ear.
Surround your thighs with roots,
wheat, milk from the wolf.
There is a Mother to pray to now.
She comes a golden way
through the thicket.
You shall deem her by her sea-tempered gaze, plum-softened soul, the waters
that trail her heels.
She brings a breathing river,
widowed in its silence.
The bluewrinkled hand
returns to steady the womb.
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