Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (23) - Flipbook - Page 51
SCALES
by Jonathan Fletcher
I’ve often wondered whether the plucked fruit
was sex, if chest against breasts,
thigh against thigh,
legs entwined like vines,
caused The Fall.
I’ve never peeled away skin
from fruit whose pulp gratified me,
every reluctant mouthful
of flesh and juice a moment
of further clarity:
I’m no Adam,
have never craved an Eve.
But I did not learn this in a garden.
No serpent hissed at me
as I palmed fruit.
I didn’t chafe my back against bark,
instead pressed by body into bed.
When my eyes widened
in knowledge,
I didn’t gather the leaves of fallen figs,
stitch from them a coarse garment,
cover my privates with green.
I’m still scaled in guilt.
But unlike the scheming snake,
I can’t shed. Shame clings.
I slither along alone.
That’s no curse, that’s my nature.
For me, curse is this:
the constant pressure
to nibble skin, suck juice,
pretend I like the taste
of fruit, while wanting to spit it out,
like seeds.
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