Figura serpentinata. Sure, it’s twisted
as all such stories are, but still
it’s moving, in a way.
They’re gods. What can you say?
Capricious, stony, an abyssal will
that cannot ever be resisted?
Granted. We build the deities we need,
and they’re as full of brute
impulses as we are. There’s no sense
to anything otherwise. And really, since
we know she’s going to eat the stupid fruit,
seed by dark garnet seed,
where’s the fault here? It’s more than no
means no, war of wills. She can twist in his grip forever;
it’s still the handbasket in which
she’ll go to hell. We know
if anything’s carved in stone, it is the never-
over Plutonic pull to enrich
the coffers of spall and schist and transfigured lime
below us. She’s no different. Die,
remineralize, repeat. Though yes, it’s strange
to see, if you apply
enough heat, enough pressure, enough time,
how radically a thing can change.