your daughters are crawling on
cucumber leaves, through squash,
and beetles that came to feast.
brave sinners dancing
among the grapevines, twirling
themselves up bamboo poles
to fruit more than they’ll ever be.
the sky reaches out to catch one
she from where they cast her out
of the garden of eden
man spit her out all rancid
apple core still stuck in their throat
as they condemned her
About the Creator
R.C. Taylor
I write to invoke, to process, to honor, to resurrect, and—sometimes—to grieve but, above all, I write to be free.
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