The Daughter of Eve

There’s a cross caught in my throat that I can’t cough up –
I’ve carried its weight for years;
woken from dreams of the wood scratching tender the tissue
until it wore my poems down to dust.
I cannot swallow the image of a man;
his bleeding wrists,
the bowed head lined with thorns.
I cannot keep it down:
In his garden, I talk to snakes.

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