By Denise R. Weuve
for edward hanson
How strange that you, my friend
come stationed with your own cross,
your palms bleeding because your heart
cannot. You tell me of women
leaving one after another like months
gone by too quickly. You wrap yourself
in pages of the bible; Samson had Delilah,
Adam had Eve. Why so hard for you?
And this is how you will live, church
bulletins scattered around your room
where used condoms should be, all
because you believe the woman for you
will fit like a missing rib. But
what of Lilith, her long night bred hair.
Her sleek body demanding space,
her eyes wide almonds grasping life
quicker than any man, formed
of the earth. Can you not
imagine it? A woman aware
of the violence of your sex, how it
encompasses the world, yet willing
to open her legs and let you in. Or
are you just scared, that a woman
like that could make you worship her.
A woman like that is always on top.
Originally appeared in Bop Dead City.