[Post(script]ture)

A Reading from the Book of Genesis

“And she said to them, ‘Call me Mara, for the Almighty has dealt very bitterly with me…”

Ruth 1:20

I.

I once described you as an ancient garden–lost, but not forgotten. Created by a jealous God, who though omniscient, could never truly know the feeling of your whisper in His ear, nor your skin contacting His, nor feel His pulse quicken at your approach, fed by the passions of mortality. But if I now call you a martyr, love, don’t take offense: a rose by any other name would still wilt and die.

II.

I’m the sentry who drove that (mi)stake deep inside you. Your expression showed strain, but you took it all in–the sins of men laid upon you. Transubstantiated by the music of organs, a rhythmic hymn to which sing, with a voice not quite of angels…more like nephilum.

III.

Your nails ran like sweat down my naked back. Crimson lips trailed like blood down my neck, down my chest, down my stomach…And as I reached down, I knew that once I slid inside you would clench, and hold on. And those fingers would never again reach for the heavens, but instead for the shadows–for the damp warmth of the earth. Your cunt is where grace dies: it is the depths to which the angels fell, the first and final battleground.

IV.

You are a coffin awaiting a corpse. What is the afterlife to me now? Your womb is the soil for the tree of life–your legs, the road to immortality. And where the paths intersect, a dew-covered blossom guards the gate and swallows all sin, all reason, all pain. I no longer fear death: your mouth tastes of ashes; your skin is smooth and cool like stones from a river; you smell like dead flowers, and laugh as though you were never a child.

V.

You are my Holy Mother, my Golden Calf, my Promised Land, my Jezebel. Without you, I could live forever…but without you, what would be the point?

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