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.