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.
Copyright ©
Jaymee Thomas
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