Jack Daniel Miles ~ The Eve Progression

My Rib

Her eyes look north,
the snow underneath her feet thaws
as she walks barefoot
over the terrain. Ideals bloom
from the once barren ground—theories
of how the world should be,
the form,
the totality of her position—
shooting up to the sky
and wrapping around the clouds
like star jasmine.

She wears no clothes, unadorned, she has nothing
but what she was given,
nothing but what was created. Appearing to
ever wander, she knows where she travels—
she even knows what
the Earth must think.

Men, women, and children pursue her;
they find
peace
in her bosom,
war
in her eyes,
life
in her bed, and
death
in her splendor.

 

Eternal Transient

This woman is the non-postulating, reckoning, curative

form of love, thrust down from overhead. Audacious
blossom of life and death, a funeral while giving birth,

everything happening at once. She is a scorned
lover welcoming us home, but only so

we are nearby while she plans our murder.
We are offered so much beauty and comfort,

we almost forget this abusive relationship
in which we are trapped. Mutual destruction

is the path we travel, holding hands and
sharing kisses in the leafy shadows underneath

the dying trees. We lust after each other,
pretending to embrace death.

Where were we when it all began? We had

not yet been thrust forth. What kind of child
slowly, purposefully, kills their mother just after

birth, forming such a grotesque relationship
with her? Their crumbling mother’s lover.

We pour poison down her throat

while making love. She does not care;
after we are gone she will still be here.

She will find another faulty symbiotic relationship
to entice with her fragile beauty, to make toxic

with her scent, to let tear her down while destroying
themselves, perpetually disputing whose fault it is.

 

In This Moment

Our love has found refuge,
it is safe,
it has shaken off
and is lying by the hearth warming itself
like a dog
in from the rain.

The apprentice weeps
as he strokes his lover’s scars
and questions
where her weapons are. Unbound by the thought
that her hazel eyes will soon be plucked by the rising sun
as it washes away the decadent hatred
the architect scorns, her student
rolls across the bed, climbs the walls, impersonates
the living dead.

The fire will soon grow cold,
be prepared,
for there will be other storms.

 

Jack Daniel Miles currently resides in the gator infested swamps of Gainesville, Florida, with his wife and daughter. Jack is a writer, multi-instrumentalist, volunteer educator, and volunteer editor at an all profits to charity press currently under development.

figaro

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