All creation is violence. A rift in the fabric. Split and spilled. Torn asunder. Our infinite collisions sparking life.
The First Act, a parting. This from that. Light. Dark Land. Sea. You. Me.
How long did it last, Eve’s life with Adam and his animals? Eve, made of ribs, numbers 3-5, which is why the heart aches and emptiness weighs
so heavy there.
Why don’t we remember, the fatal fruit was planted, tended, divine to eat? You spat out the seeds to sow them.
Now you know.
Our Garden was ill-gotten. So we long for completion. For consensus. For union.
How we long for union.
I return to suffering; it is good. Its roots thread through me where a labored joy works its way back into this body: it is possible, it whispers up my spine and across my skin, it is possible, to find me again.
Now I know.