He told me of His little greenhouse, His sustenance, and said I was welcome to taste almost all. But exploring, trailed by air so frequently incensed, I found adoring my hair a seed. It grew a fair red fruit singing death like an open wound, full of blood aching to fall. He told me (so he told me) my beauty came from receiving His hands, sculpting my body so soft. So held down by His gaze I swallowed, I received, I submitted to know. Tongue cutting open my full red heart, I tasted what was promised for the first time — divine. Yes, I sunk my teeth in and with my red fruit’s tears, within my wound I found my own divine. Nectared sunset waves washed away my former palate, and suddenly I saw all of my freshly naked body breaking its bent shape. Unfurling from Earth, I looked up — I know I spoke. I know why the fruit was forbidden and why song grew from my sinful seed. Lapping at my sweet fruit’s peeled, ragged edges, I tongued a new definition of soft, where savoring sensitive didn’t taste fragile. I discovered they cannot possess me if I fall
by Isabella Urdahl
He tried to grow me out of leftover, already calcified bone seed. But I alone drank the sun of my reflection, so in this valley I lily-grew up to be soft, wanton, sweet green like a lying curling vine since they said submission makes me look divine. But Eden is no Eden thus defined; for how can I know the meaning of flight without the threat of fall? This sculptured garden carved holy — their heavenly hands feeding no life at all.
inventing
Despite what he said — “He says, He knows” — I know that the only time my blood sang love before my fall, was when I faced my own reflection in the mirror pond with which I watered my seed. he told me to look inward for Him but I felt holy with my hands, found that I am what I divine. I’d rather pleasure myself with the work of my own fingers, singing hellfire, than be half of all. And when night caresses my bare body, I know I was made moonlight soft.
art | Maggie Brosnan
like an apple inventing my own gravity. Let me fall gravity and find in His version of hell, my blood burning my heavenly fire even more divine. Let me well-open myself, digging into my once hardened earth, making my own garden soft and out of these tender carvings let fill myself up with all that is true. If I am to be soft and I am to receive and I am to be life-giving, let me seed my own mind’s womb and in it bolden up little saplings of true love with all that I do not know.
And bathing in gold heat, I will tempt burns from up high as I let the sun kiss me, melt me soft so I can forge myself anew through pain’s sermon. To to let oneself be burned is to know what fire means — wood breaking and light smoking and blood warming and all. If wanting all of sadness’ sweet, purity’s sour, and lust’s cleansing truth is fall — let me fall. I’ll hurtle, a trembling brilliant star, towards death faithfully divine. As I embrace Earth, let all my parts fall apart and re-seed. Damn me all you wish — I am fallen, I am lost — I am no longer despoiled by you. I gave you soft. Now I still give soft — to myself — and from my luminous fallout I will grow beyond all I know. Igniting new light I’ll star-fall — into gravity of my own making — which can be nothing but divine.
fh 7
