The Ashes of Eve
A poem
I light the match with trembling fingers,
nails bitten down to flesh, skin raw
like the first time I tore myself free,
rebellion tasting sweet as blood
on the tip of my tongue. They said
to sit still, legs crossed, lips sewn shut
with centuries of silence — but I have teeth.
I have learned to sharpen them.
I wasn’t born to kneel, to smooth the wrinkles
from their starched white collars, to
play the part of pretty cage bird
singing the lullabies of boys’ desires.
I was born with fire in my throat,
ash in my bones from all the women who came
before me, women with chains around their wrists,
grinding their teeth down to dust.
The patriarchy burns in the back
of my throat, thick with the soot
of unspoken histories. I want to shout,
to let loose a scream so loud it cracks
the marble statues lining the halls of men
who wrote laws on my back,
who carved my body into their altars,
who still think they own me.
But I am not theirs to name, to mold, to tear
apart with their prayers. I will not be
another Eve in their garden of lies,
told I’m nothing without their ribs,
told my skin is soft because it was meant
to be touched, broken open
by their greedy, bruising hands.
Let them choke on my rage —
my body is a forest, burning
brighter than their pale-faced gods.
© Ani Eldritch, 2024.
