scene three and then who are we? the nymphs who are bad at getting away. caught by celestials, pinioned down with godly hands, pleasure pulled from underneath our fingernails, left with a broken-into body, bloody and blemished. while the god returns to olympus— trumpeted inside the gates of mountain idyll. ichor unspilled. and from the unholy ground we watch apollo, eros still in his side, not even bashful, standing on the root of daphne, “well, there was this girl.” scene four but then we realize, this—this is not new. this ribbed rhythm is an ancient ritual, bodies barren and teeth barred in eden. treason leaving a path of branches and stems. betrayal without even a kiss, or a smattering of silver coins. Just viscid juice, seeping into sinful flesh. and with the skin of the apple still in his teeth, adam, the second earliest, a bone named eve at his shoulder, stares into the probing of his MAKER’s eyes and all that can come from his mouth— “well, there was this girl.”
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