ambrosia.

Image by Aurelien Boyer

I made crumble
with the apple of Eden,
and asked the serpent
for some custard.

Mouth waters spill
upon wanting lips,
as slithering tongues tremble
in disbelief.

Medusa says
I have a heart of stone;
I told her it must be marble.
She’s afraid
to look me in the eye:
too afraid
to indulge herself
in the secrets of garden taboos
forever meant to be broken.
I told her she would marvel
at the treasures that lay beneath
these layers of ripened fig leaves,
but she’s too afraid to see who I am:
too afraid to witness
the power of the naked truth,
held within a taste of sweet rebellion.