Elizabeth Stevens
Eve and the Whale's Song (CW: domestic violence)
The sea has not been seen by me, though
thoughts of salt and spray have always filled
my mind. A distant wish once dreamed by
me, but Adam says that can't be true, if he
has never dreamed it, too. He never dreamed
thoughts of salt and spray have always filled
my mind. A distant wish once dreamed by
me, but Adam says that can't be true, if he
has never dreamed it, too. He never dreamed
a whale once beached herself on rain pocked
sands and sang as I approached. Old girl
sang such flensed and shattered lines for me
to dance along, feet snagging each sharp
edge. We drummed the wind and tossed
my bones across the water, hoping for
omens in tides. I divined the curve of earth
from my downward spiral, the bending
light’s horizon fringed by sky and change. I fell
to sea, and all my grace with me.
sands and sang as I approached. Old girl
sang such flensed and shattered lines for me
to dance along, feet snagging each sharp
edge. We drummed the wind and tossed
my bones across the water, hoping for
omens in tides. I divined the curve of earth
from my downward spiral, the bending
light’s horizon fringed by sky and change. I fell
to sea, and all my grace with me.
When wakefulness infringed on me,
my husband said the earth is flat
and pressed his lips to mine – a stake
claimed. He always laid on top of me and slept
and dreamed the still, unmoving night to life.
He wound my hair around his hand.
He grazed his teeth across my throat.
He held himself inside me.
my husband said the earth is flat
and pressed his lips to mine – a stake
claimed. He always laid on top of me and slept
and dreamed the still, unmoving night to life.
He wound my hair around his hand.
He grazed his teeth across my throat.
He held himself inside me.
Lilith and Eve take me to the beach
The gentle waves froth around my feet as Lilith and Eve rest to my left, next to a cathedral erected from the ribs of a dead whale. Grains of sand embed themselves in the weft of the blanket Eve spreads out before lying down, her back to the sun's narrowed eye slung low in a red morning sky. I bring her a seashell, and she presses it to her ear as Lilith pulls food from an open basket.
"Even the nautili knew to recite their vespers until the words echoed over the memories of ocean waves," Eve says, her voice feathered and strained, ready to pluck out her chords with her teeth.
"Vespers and lauds, lauds and vespers, when I was young, I burned my indulgences over an open flame and prayed to god to send me an angel to fuck — the more wings and eyes the better. But, alas! The cock crowed thrice for Peter, but wouldn’t come even once for me," Lilith says, passing me a fried baby leg wrapped in old newspaper.
"You know I don't eat meat," I say, accepting it anyway to read the funnies on the back. Eve, steeped too long in absinthe and bleach, hurls the shell and shatters it against a whale bone, scattering gulls to the sky.
"Such sweet orisons for you!" she cries. She points at Lilith. "An orison for you to bask in love and heresy!" She points at me. "One for you to swell beyond your flesh blessed with unsolicited forgiveness!" She peels away her clothes under the sun's umber gaze and dances, feet pounding the sand. "And an orison for me, that I might taste my cleft reflection and know I’m finally alone." She whirls between each rib, body curved and feral. Hair encrusted in salt. Eyes wide open.
On the Mother of Monsters
Beneath a sullen sky, I pluck one leg from a daddy long legs, whispering at the jointed petal, "He loves me." Eve sits nearby, her back pressed against a manchineel tree. Fallen fruit like severed fists stipple the ground around her. I pluck another. He loves me not. Eve stares at the sun as it mutters past the horizon, hollowing her shadow till I could swim in it. "Tell me a story," I say as I tug at a third. He loves me. She stares into the middle distance, her silhouette mythic against the dusk. "What kind of story?" she asks. The fourth leg falls. He loves me not. "One about love," I say. A fifth. He loves me. Eve's skin blisters where her body meets bark, yet she will not move. She says, "Once upon a time, Lilith rose from soil, and beheld first the face of Adam as if carved from stone." A sixth. He loves me not. "For Lilith, Adam sought suffocation and called it grace, but not even God could make her small to suit another’s pride." Seventh. He loves me. "Instead, she spoke the name of God and sprouted wings, for she would rather make love to her own body than break herself around another." Only the eighth leg remains, coiling desperately towards death. Though I do not see, Eve eats an apple from the tree, her teeth unspooling juices stored in its core. Through swollen lips, she says, "This isn’t the end." To hide the body, I slip the spider beneath my tongue.
Quiet, bottom, a top is speaking
How now, brown cow, could I
I
I,
ionic and flocked
wild and mocked
riled and measured
Byronic and feathered
Miltonic and tarred
luminous and jarred
argued and frayed
larked and strayed
solar and gloved
kohled and beloved
opposed and pitched
odd and witched
Ever want to fuck you
you
you,
boring.
I
I,
ionic and flocked
wild and mocked
riled and measured
Byronic and feathered
Miltonic and tarred
luminous and jarred
argued and frayed
larked and strayed
solar and gloved
kohled and beloved
opposed and pitched
odd and witched
Ever want to fuck you
you
you,
boring.
For I will consider this body
– After Christopher Smart
For I will consider this body, piecemeal and broken.
For the eyes would turn grace on its spine if the mind
gave them freedom to roam beyond the skull.
For anyway the spine pays no mind to the eyes,
instead pruning each of its branches to cut.
For the teeth don't know they're bones since
they grow roots like daisies through blood and gums.
For in October each bone holds the cold close.
For in each node the blood burns.
For the hands hold each other for comfort.
For under the skin the phalanges splinter from the
weight of the wrists carrying the weight of the hands.
For the wrists watched the knuckles grow mouths
to make such popped and kerneled noises.
For sound echoes through the cavernous blood until
every bone sings and shakes its fists.
For in November the rain makes the joints curl.
For in each cell the stomach turns.
For the hair and nails think they'll grow past death.
For when death has done the deed, the skin shrinks
away from their delusions of grandeur.
For the delusions are proven by the shrinking and
The grandeur demands the mind to let the eyes see.
For the ears can't hear the grandeur because the mind
shut all the windows and doors once death came knocking.
For in December the snow burrows into the skin.
For in each vein the nerves churn.
For the mind considers itself.
For the mind would like to stop.
For the eyes would turn grace on its spine if the mind
gave them freedom to roam beyond the skull.
For anyway the spine pays no mind to the eyes,
instead pruning each of its branches to cut.
For the teeth don't know they're bones since
they grow roots like daisies through blood and gums.
For in October each bone holds the cold close.
For in each node the blood burns.
For the hands hold each other for comfort.
For under the skin the phalanges splinter from the
weight of the wrists carrying the weight of the hands.
For the wrists watched the knuckles grow mouths
to make such popped and kerneled noises.
For sound echoes through the cavernous blood until
every bone sings and shakes its fists.
For in November the rain makes the joints curl.
For in each cell the stomach turns.
For the hair and nails think they'll grow past death.
For when death has done the deed, the skin shrinks
away from their delusions of grandeur.
For the delusions are proven by the shrinking and
The grandeur demands the mind to let the eyes see.
For the ears can't hear the grandeur because the mind
shut all the windows and doors once death came knocking.
For in December the snow burrows into the skin.
For in each vein the nerves churn.
For the mind considers itself.
For the mind would like to stop.
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