THE SOLARIUM

The Myth of the Woman Who Wanted Too Much

A bite of an apple, a handful of seeds, an outstretched hand,

eyes narrowed against a velvet dark

that whispers secrets, luscious secrets,

bittersweet, wine-red with the scent of 

temptation. The woman wants

but a single taste. The woman wants

too much. 

___

A bite of an apple—

riot-red flesh cracks open and yields

the whiteness inside screaming, 

“Let there be light!”

and the acrid flame of wisdom burns,

turns the night that is to follow 

all the darker. 

___

Adam mourns the loss of Eden; Eve, she mourns 

the realization

that paradise was never hers 

as she stands in the shadow of the garden’s gate, 

in the shadow of the man that made her made, 

in the shadow of the god who made her 

woman, not the image but the

image-image,

the reflected light of another’s desire, 

but she does not wish to be ignorant

even so. The woman wants 

to understand. The woman wants

too much. 

___

A handful of seeds— 

rumbling echoes through the dark 

and slams against the silent stone

like desperate hands striking the walls of a tomb

before sinking slowly in surrender 

to the quiet of an early grave. 

___

Trees writhe upward from the ground,

skeletons with blackened bones

thin arms bearing heavy fruit 

with impenetrable flesh that has learned to protect

from the scraping of another’s teeth, 

unprepared for the crushing stone that breaks

its red shell open. 

___

Mortals mourn the loss of summer; Persephone mourns 

the realization

that summer sun was never hers, but a gift 

only given to be taken away

by the caprices of hearts that hold her

captive—a mother who would shield her from

being seen,

a man with cold hands, a chariot of bone, 

and a kingdom-crypt of muttering corpses,

the weight of them all crushed into 

six red seeds that sit in her stomach 

like stone. The woman wants 

to fill the void. The woman wants

Too much. 

___

An outstretched hand—

Fingers slip beneath a mask 

of porcelain so smooth and cool, so fine it makes her 

shudder. This painted mask, this perfect face

of the flawless god that brought her here

is still. 

When he speaks of love, his lips do not move.

___

As the handsome face stays still and cold,

she imagines herself a monster

underneath, hideous, and raw, and warm with love 

dripping from his slavering jowls,

and with a hungry hand she starts to reach 

For that which is forbidden. 

___

Eros mourns the secret lost; Psyche mourns 

the realization 

that handsome mask hid handsome face, 

that in motionless beauty she will never find

A reflection of herself. Her pulsing heart 

is hers alone, and in solitude she must learn to bear

the surging hunger to be known, 

the curse of being human. The woman wants

Love—fierce, unshielded. The woman wants

too much. 

___

A bite of an apple, so sweet that it aches, 

a handful of seeds, bitten, spit out as

an outstretched hand turns on the light. 

Stark, bone-white, it floods the room, revealing all her 

secrets, awful secrets, written in shadow between bulging 

ribs and splattered in stains, sour and orange, heavy with the reek of

bile as she gives in, bites down, devours, and

alll of Eden rots inside her.

___

The groans of her stomach cannot silence

the myths in her mind that always clamor: 

Fear the woman who wants too much, who hungers

for fruit, for love, for knowledge, 

Fear the woman, born of bone, 

whose hands, in greed, rip off the mask

and scar the face beneath. She will tear past the flesh

and love you 

down to the organs

and lap up your blood 

like sweet red juice.

___

Woman, learn to fear your hunger,

for you will be undone by the smallest of bites, 

weighed down in darkness by a handful of seeds,

forever damned by your outstretched hand, 

your inquisitive heart.

Woman, live and die in fear, the fear of being

too much.