Eden's Gates

The doors to this

temple

beg reverence,

yawning wide

that I might

bow my head

sip

from silken chalice

of clavicle and skin.

I’ll come in

veil of curls,

feather-ringlets draped

to cover prayers

of tongue and teeth,

hot against the

the taste of

center,

this garden’s

hidden seed.

Let me kneel

before the altar,

press offerings

of dampened

silk on curves

thick with myrrh,

sugar-slick and

soft as

bruised persimmon.

Eden’s gates

are opening,

bit-lip red and overripe,

to spill in runnels

a warm communion—

fruit

of my flesh

of yours.