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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 05, 2018

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Submitted: August 05, 2018





i. Woman, unchained


She was both conceived and birthed

underneath a bridge in the Mediterranean.

As her teeth grew in,

Mother plucked them out,

saving the child the fate of vanity.


In her pennaceous years,

she ascended the throne.

Among the clouds she delighted,

but she could not partake of the feast.

Molar-less, she took a liking to wine

and sweet, succulent, dripping things.


At the pinnacle,

her breasts and belly hung swollen.

She lounged, unfaltering,

between sun-kissed cheeks

and Olympus’ sternum.



ii. Woman, unmade


She awoke wrapped in a snake,

head throbbing with hangover.

And while the python tightened ‘round her throat

she reminisced her drunkness,

her ability to see the creature as a man.


He had swallowed her ulna whole.

He hiccupped down onto the sheets,

the feathers ruddy with her blood.


In the blackout she’d traded her soul

to the Constrictor. Surely, she thought,

he would consume her.

© Copyright 2019 R. E. York. All rights reserved.

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