I knew you in the garden when you were full with fruit.
I saw you slinking on your belly in the dust
inside of him. And I called to you.
Girl of bone, girl of breath,
girl of bloody birthing.
As we scrabbled in the dirt I pressed my fingers
to your side.
Scraped my nails down the length
of the bone that would become you.
I saw it bending, breaching.
I saw you reaching.
Little sister, you know that I am no one’s
helpmeet. Not even yours.
But in the night when the blood comes rushing
and the breath brushing past like the wind on the waters,
you may call to me.
Cry my name
in the barren night. I will come.
I will teach you that in every birth
there is a bleeding.
Even a garden demands its share.
Scrape your teeth down the side
of the red, red fruit
and know that bitterness awaits you.
Know what you were born to bear.
Know that you have barely begun.
Only God and you
bring life. That is the weight of a womb.
But destruction and divinity
slither side by side.
And in the night I can curdle.
I can make you bleed.
Chava, I will not lie beneath you,
nor will I lie to you. But when you need a snakebite,
call to me. I know the garden’s nests.
I can show you where I’ve planted
tansy, pennyroyal, rue.
And the ruin roiling inside you
teething on its red, red fruit:
Pass me the pulp, the bitter waters.
I will bite.
