Lilith Inspires Life in the Hell of Adam and Eve, by Lilith’s Lover

my girl builds Eden with half-cut melons and papayas

forget-me-nots and marigolds hanging loose from her neck

cactus for tongue

rose petals bleeding out of her vagina

still cradling the damaged pearl and planting it

in soil to watch it grow into olives

so she can take the olive and anoint our marriage

with its oil

 

my girl builds Eden without cages

vines tracing the skeleton of the house

rabbits burrowing beneath open windows with sheer

carnation curtains pointing to the only well among the shrubs

she won’t waste gold on wishes she can grow

and water with her own sweat.

 

she howls with the dogs at the moon

chill air, humid skin, heart between her teeth,

spare rib in her grip

and builds Eden without a God.

 

I See Yellow

when you undress me

only half way

(because you’re tired of me

and I know it

but it’s fine)

 

when I lay there

fresh out of

rotting yellow-wallpaper skin

olive-knuckles

saffron-curls

sunflower-breasts

 

when all I am

is a marred golden apple

in your sullied golden hands

 

when you peel the spotted banana

and throw out the parts

too ugly to handle

 

every time you tell me

I should just leave

and you light the door

on fire

 

I want to see yellow

brought to me on a plated tray

on the day you’d leave forever

not in the mirror

not when I take off my clothes

to count the times you said goodbye

without using your words

 

the gay immigrant girls

are diving into Kahlo’s papaya

peeling grapefruit in the mornings

rubbing sugar into their wounds instead of salt.

 

two girls

who don’t even hold hands at parks because

do not re-define maricóna in front of

fathers who only know how to give their

daughters something to cry about

 

still braid flowers into their hair before

folding dough in humid kitchens

 

wear tattoos as wedding rings

because commitment is stronger engraved

on the skin.

 

this amor sub rosa

has always been about the skirts

the smile on their mothers’ faces

when they are asked to spin

 

for the moment they are not the confused daughters

they are just daughters

and they only dance with church boys.

 

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Scarlet Gomez is a writer and art history nerd studying in the City College of New York, right in the heart of Harlem. She is slowly learning to share herself, unapologetically, with the rest of the world, and has previously been published in literary journals such as Persephone’s Daughters, Breadcrumbs Magazine, and Promethean.