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They say she chases women and their bloody births
and her shadow rises above cribs
when once crying babies stop breathing.
If you ask, she will tell you:
Before the first silvery light
rose over the cold planes of a new planet
her womb was closed
and though she glories
in taking her lover’s member
between her thighs
her own vine grows outward
in delicate tendrils,
forever casting out her lover’s seed
in homage to First Man, first love
banished from the Garden.
She will never wear your chaste veils
or stand before a hot kettle
and when she meets Our Lord
it will be in an open field.
He will pluck flowers from her hair
and look upon her moon white body
and wonder that this was the wife
Adam could not hold.
These were the generous hips
that would never yield.
Let her fingers find your most private places
as your bed fills with her feathers, never yours,
dampened with flights never taken
before she tosses her head
and hair black as crows wings
spills in your face.
Her whisper is an open cavern
at the edge of the sea.
If you turn your head
and only the moon glances back,
a mere flicker of an eyelash,
remember, it was you who chose
to let go of her hand.
She never promised to follow.

Robin Dawn Hudechek

Published in Kentucky Review: 2016