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“Paradise This bridge of moon on bended knee above us keening twilight and the snake that is your tongue has taught itself to sing, to sing. My hand so heavy with your hand, your eyes brimmed curve to crease with grief, and you chant Bread will be the body of a king, someday. With a voice like every nectarine, so lovely and so bruised, how I am tempted to you, famished as a rite of spring mid-winter underneath the tricky snow, broom-cold, tripping fig over foot, husky and nervous as the glassy oxen, staggering. Remember, I am but a rib. I curve into your spine and wrap about your heart, fleshless as marrow, your vitreous darling.” — Jill Alexander Essbaum
Paradise
This bridge of moon on bended knee above us
keening twilight and the snake that is
your tongue has taught itself to sing, to sing.
My hand so heavy with your hand, your eyes
brimmed curve to crease with grief, and you chant
Bread will be the body of a king,
someday. With a voice like every nectarine,
so lovely and so bruised, how I am tempted
to you, famished as a rite of spring
mid-winter underneath the tricky snow,
broom-cold, tripping fig over foot, husky
and nervous as the glassy oxen, staggering.
Remember, I am but a rib. I curve
into your spine and wrap about your heart,
fleshless as marrow, your vitreous darling.