Was it mercy or menace that made Adam crush the serpent’s head
Who opened Eve’s eyes to the reptilian vision she saw
When her eyes rolled back, and again when they slammed tight in pain?
This ground is surely cursed; the myth is true.
Strong enough to keep life from flying away,
Too weak to forbid it from crawling out of the depths,
Reaching up to the sky for the fire to char the Other.
Having tasted blood, we could not return.

Our heads grew as we told tales of our hunts around the fire-spit,
Tales designed to make mouths water and stomachs growl.
Stories took on lives of their own and ruled their makers
Who craved them as much as the bloodletting that brought them to be:
Craved villains to make us heroes; demanded gods to make us saints;
Needed light to take away our shadows, and Others to make us One.
Pupils still widen when the stories are told:
We are right; They are wrong… mouths water, and our heads grow.

Out of the garden and into the wild; out of the wild and into the field;
Out of the field into the city; out of the city and amongst the stars…
Get me off of this rock where heads are so swollen that mothers must scream
To bring forth the next generation of life-crushers.

There was no Fall for the dominant when they left the Garden,
It was not their blood spilled for sacrificial stories.
When the blood runs dry, Our sacred thirst will continue.
The blood-stories will turn on us – and indeed – already are…
The Fall is before us.