She laughed with an odd bitterness
of an Eve banished from paradise
before she could taste the apple
before she could taste her Adam.
her hair, premature grey
under the bloated moon, shone
the grey strands like alliterated verses
between a long ballad.
A piece of sky melted,
and in her eyes merged
where a thousand mad moths
danced to an invisible melody
a flame in the storm.
and suddenly she smiled, golden tongue
flicking over a pomegranate mouth
I realized that
she needn’t taste Adam,
nor the apple
because she had tasted the angels.
specters of dead wings
shrieked in the air