Shame

It was probably a pomegranate, 
which matters only inasmuch as 
it’s tart. 

Eve studied herself in the mirror of a pond, 
said, I don’t need sweet things, 
what I need is an organ 

I can tear apart with the sharp and filthy 
edges of my nails, seed after seed popping 
between my molars, bursting. 

Then she said, I myself am bursting 
with flesh, look how my breasts 
have gooseflesh in the breeze. 

And like 
instinct blossomed. 

Eve ossified, 
hard as a rib again, 
then crumbling.