“Thou shalt not eat of the golden fruit of the tree In the midst of the garden,” the voice a negative Of flesh drawn toward the deadly lust to live, To know, to touch forbidden fruit, to see. A tongue hisses, mocking the cruelty Carved in commands only deities can give. “Reach out, my lovely, toward the web I weave—” His tongue glistens with possibilities. A globe breaks like a glass of ruby wine Filling the fissures of the earth with shade. Knowing, I bid my languid lover dine.