And there was eve--, and there was mourning
ed. Ryan Tan and Xiong Ran
And there was evening, and there was mourning
Bathroom
Last night I lay down on ceramic.
Marionette sang me a dream.
Silver strings cut her
shadow into a dark path.
You can’t outrun light.
A bottle of mist warms the mind.
Don’t drink too much, it leaves
room for possibility. And remember,
the bed is a citrus glade to lay
with tomorrow closer than a lover.
Listen, the faucet leaks a reverie.
Cup your palms to it in prayer.
Expect questions.
Porcelain tiles open into
grass softer than a whisper.
Are you still with me?
Tree rings woven from her hair.
A pitcher of lemonade drawn
from a rose-coloured stream.
Say I can’t return. Then what?
Honey makes me sick. Misery
is both a cold and a fever,
if you can believe it. I don’t
believe I’ll ever rest. Hurting
is easy, yes easier than a breath.
But I try, I try.
The Cycle
When Eve ate that fucking fruit from the tree
she must have swallowed a seed,
because the seed, angry at being swallowed,
decided to swallow her up in return.
It planted itself in her womb and
sunk its teeth-like roots into her walls,
sowing a curse for generations to come.
Now here I am,
the generations having come and gone,
and still every month, I feel that seed
come to life with a vengeance,
gnawing away at nerve endings and
tearing through tissue—the terror never ends.
Even so, when doctors check there’s nothing there.
The machines can’t be broken
and the specialists can’t be wrong
but maybe I can and maybe I am.
They say once the seed germinates,
once it sprouts vines along my bones
and leaves under my skin,
once it flowers and deflowers,
once petals rot in my lungs,
once the branches bend over bearing fruit
and once it ripens, swollen like a watermelon
fit to burst, once it does……
Oh, the terrors never end.
I want to grow but not like this,
not to deliver the fruit Eve so thoughtlessly stole.
Better still to let the curse consume me,
to lie in bed near catatonic every month
and bear this wretchedness than to bear fruit—
a fruit that could have the same little fucked up seed,
a seed she never swallowed but would swallow her up all the same,
that would ravage her clean and sow a curse for generations to come and come and come-
The terrors never end. They will never end.
The first mother
The first mother did not have a mom.
No mom to kiss her sweaty forehead
and explain that she is not dying,
that some wounds are just openings
which neither rot nor close, but return
again each month every month until you die.
She simply had to find out, all on her own,
that the body never forgets what you owe
and it remembers the way God remembers,
the way knowledge cannot be unknown.
Oh Eve, forgive me.
Hold my hand. Forgive me.