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.