Across the Way from Eden

by Madison Brown

Are you the fruit that first stole purity?

My craving for you is insatiable—just one bite—Please God, just to see.

The ones I look up to tell me to beware, that you come from a different garden,

but you look like you’d taste like me.

I’ve seen your skin, but I want the flesh;

my canines ache to discover if it’s true or deceit.

Like a dog I’ll beg, I’ve never seen something so seemingly alike myself,

and all I’ve ever wanted is to know: what made me this way?

I sink my teeth in, but as I break through bitter skin,

the spray that washes over my tongue curses me forever.

I hiss as the acidity eats away my taste buds.

My tongue is forked and spasms in and out, in and out.

Convulsions shake through my torso as I seize and salivate.

White bubbles erupt from my mouth like a geyser,

burning and blistering the delicate skin of my lips.

With my head between my knees, I see that my teeth have fallen to my feet, replaced by fangs.

Then I have no feet at all. Where I once found stability, I see only indignity.

Forced to crawl on my stomach with my face in the dirt, I smell decay.

I shed my skin in an attempt to shed my sin.

It doesn’t matter. My scales shine brighter to reflect what I’ve done.

To end this torturous fate, I swallow my tail. And yet,

I spin endlessly.

Cycling through venomous misery, I am not living,

but I can’t seem to die.

In a desperate pursuit of knowledge, I learned that ignorance is bliss,

that morally gray is better than black or white.

Still, you don’t see me as a warning,

for I am nothing but a snake.

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