By Allison Rothrock

I often ask of her: 

Do you love me 

Like God, 

Or like a kneeling man? 

 

She doesn’t always answer, 

But sometimes lines her skin 

In the red-soft palate 

Of butterflies and sin; 

 

Her lips flutter like dove wings, 

Snap shut, I think, like Eve; 

Instead we trade our fingers,  

Tongues full of Judas-things; 

 

Mouth comes a cut of secret, 

One hand of forbidden flesh 

Plucks from me an apple 

Like you would a breast. 

 

She doesn’t always answer, 

But she looks me right 

In the hole where eyes go. 

God must like lying, too, 

Or she wouldn’t do it so well.