Lilith

I am Lilith, like a ghost pipe under oak shadows of Tomorrow River Valley hiding in-between hours, roots sipping moonlit juice borrowed from Eden, a deception of men ascending into the hollow of my forgotten stories— awaiting Judgment and Consumption, theirs and mine. I am the decider beside night’s veil weighing their worth with serpentine grace, tail hidden from men beneath the stars' cloak. I am a corpse-plant resurrected, ancient listening memory gleaned from the decomposed feet beneath my feet bound too, my sisters—passing arcane secrets, drained from the womb of a fecund forest floor. Pursing my shaded petals loosely, I decide as I am Lilith with echoes of men— whether to welcome bees' seeking, upside- down crawling, let them enter my hung-over head in full drooping bloom of bitter white, or remain in my haunting place, sisters praising the decayed earth from which I sprang where none but poison ivy thrives, eternally waiting. Waiting for a naturist or an open mind to find then sever me clean, under my milky knees soak my tender spine and shake my dusky bell-head in potent distillations, freshly freed. You must drown me before I decompose with my story of unease untold this cycle— before bees transform me into a taste of fungal honey, night-blackening my stem, whiplashing my ghost head skyward, now hollow in its posturing tribute to useless sun— You must pick me. Use me as analgesic, sip on my secrets, but please leave my sisters be so that I may come again through them when discomfort returns, for I am Lilith, with time's esoterica tucked under my thumb, rooted in wait for the cycle to begin again.