Atlas & Alice | Issue 3, Spring 2015
Eve I name rose, honeysuckle, mosaic. When it rains I say patter; I say pin drops of crystal. Through the clouds I say Venus, and Venus, and Venus. I don’t say brilliant, or shiny, or twinkle. I say thigh, toe, muscle-bone. I have no language but deceit and in this deceit pleasure is unsaid. But I say again. I say here, here, and please here. I say the color of a baby’s cry, the color of ravishing—a hungry mouth, a mango, a breast—this is the color to paint me. Paint my eyes the color shock, the color “Mockingbird Song.” My hair paint tornado. Paint me vain. Hold me pink but touch me black. The beauty of a serpent is in the way it writhes. I writhe in silence— my mouth sewn shut with the black thread of a crow’s feather. I chomp at the weight. I shine my teeth on apples. I practice tearing the meat away from the skin.
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