S is for sin. I knew what we were in for.
How could we exist without an exit?
He called me his apostrophe, a she, his little rib.
What soul? What self? I wanted to be singular.

In the beginning, there was light, but it was slight,
a soft wan-colored swan, a shallow lake to slake
our thirsty throats, an often hallow place. But a slow hiss
announced itself. The windswept willows wept.

At thirty, my possessive ex and I were fruitful,
peaking naked, multiplied our sex. But soon,
his low snaked tongue, in speaking, forked
our sour sons, our daughter and myself with words

of swords and I returned, both cursed and cured,
ears seared with newfound knowledge,
turned our laughter into slaughter.