Whose Wife, Then, Will This Woman Be?

Does evil exist
                    as a result

of us, or has it
                    always been here?


Evicted from this
                    garden for wanting

to know far more than
                    we were made for,

how can I be sure
                    the flaming sword

east of Eden’s door
                    isn’t your tongue,

your heat’s reason for
                    being burning

out our hope’s last flare,
                    using words for war?


Weapons blunted by
                    questions melt in

my mouth’s furnace like
                    molten honey.


With recurring pain
                    a plague’s chorus of

locusts ignores prayers
                    without regret,

takes no prisoners
                    or song requests

as wings dance on death’s
                    last breath singing,

of our fall’s epic
                    wailing dirges

winsome dervishes
                    whirl into soft myths.


Like a curse, legend
                    befalls us when

tears wash from deserts
                    all paths love traced.