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Aepril Schaile

Intimate (Self Portrait as Lilith)

Intimate, like creation.

As close as the encasement of the womb,

or the slide of one body into another. Or out.

As close as the slow baring of bones to

the earth, beneath the apple tree.

My sigh in your ear.

The sinuous orgasm of a serpent;

wet and undulating

squeezing and contracting

along the length and curve of me.

Naked, fragile, leafess in my veracity;

my many true stories and faces,

interpenetrating, reticulated.

I dine on verisimilitudes. Wrap my body, my legs,

my mouth around them. Squeeze

them to death and swallow them whole.

My pythonic, sybil-self; knowing not always who

I’ve challenged, what proud authority.

Knowing not who I’ve disabused of a fnite Garden.

Knowing not what avenging agent will cast me

out, decapitate me, or rape me.

Or, restrict me for selfsh, small worship.

Eyed. Consumed.

I am blind. I go on more ancient senses.

But I am a vision. Look away. Lest you be drawn into me

with the knowledge of little deaths, and Death.

I am a void, and I multiply rapidly, for this

is my vengeance. For each fury that is

murdered, a triple She emerges.

With a spontaneous fre. Erupting, volcanic blood

slithering, liquid, down the mountain.

From an open, spitting oven.

The scorching cunt of the Great Lady.

Burning a molten snake-path of shame and power.

Flooding your town.

Intimate, like destruction.

Like the left-behind dinner plates

on a family table. Like it was only

one hour ago. The ash-ages-preserved meal,

waiting still. Embracing bodies mummifed, clasping entwined.

Oh, the terror that must have been.

And the love that must have bloomed right then.