for diane di prima and erica jung

I
i am mary magdalen,
my identity stoned to dust by men unable to turn their gaze from the
diamonds on my chest.
i am eve,
guilty without trial.
a story rewritten by vaticans of cloaked cowards,
framed for the fall of man while adam chewed and swallowed.

i am germany in 1933,
emily dickinsons sonnets before she died,
and rochestors mad wife, tucked neatly away in the attic of possibility.

i am the apple dangling in the garden,
luscious and round,
red skin flushed from the blood of desire,
full of juicy promise,
attracting not serpents, but fruit flies that briefly gnaw pieces
of outer skin
then buzz away before air browns the under flesh,
before they reach the core,
to the seeds of possibility.