Aphrodite & Eve

Chavah-Chanah, Chavah-Chanah,
how
does your garden grow?
How
does your garden grow?
With bright slave bells
and emotional hell
and a damaged heart
numb with snow.

Aphrodite told me to
just be, so
I lit another cigarette and
got drunk on hot moonlight, moonshine, vodka
will never hold me like she does
all love, and warmth, and safety, peace of flesh,
and breath and bodies and hope.

Chavah-Chanah, Chavah-Chanah,
how
does your garden grow?
Aphrodite walks in love
through overgrown paths.
Sometimes, there is
blood in the birdbath, in
the pond
dripping off the emerald leaves
of unnamable trees.
She pulls the berries off
the vines and bushes,
breaking the taut skin
between her diamond-studded
canines.
She is power,
she is love.
Aphrodite told me to
just be,
and it stung
like the fingers of a stranger
writing secret languages
on the walls of caves,
and discovering fire
between my breasts.
My body is no longer
a crime scene,
no longer
some broken down building
full of squatters
cooking meth in the craters on my face
and thighs.

Chavah-Chanah, Chavah-Chanah,
how
does your garden grow?
(idontknow)
Aphrodite falls asleep wrapped
in lambskin blankets
and obsidian bandages.
My body is no temple.
Though I am not well-versed
in Torah, I remember
(body memories
inherited memories
always
always
always)
the temple being destroyed
VIOLATED
trafe in the sanctuary.
No, my body is no temple,
no public house of worship
where sinners come to pray and wonder
if they are being heard.

Chavah-Chanah, Chavah-Chanah
how
does your garden grow?
With bright seashells
and so much to tell
and time to spend with you.
My body is a sandcastle
lovingly crafted by gentle Italian hands
that fit like puzzle pieces into mine,
all around the curves and peaks of my body,
my sandcastle
that I am willing to surrender to
the swells
and passion
and calmness
of the lovely,
awe-inspiring
ocean.


Image from Pinterest

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