The Naming of Eve

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He calls her sweetheart, honeybear,
whore. He murmurs sugar
and filth. She drips to blush.
How he misses her flesh as his flesh,
when they were one creature
made of dirt and spit.
No name
could call her back
into their shared skin.
In four thousand winters,
she will swell with new earth:
wild, blue, and bloody.

 

Photo By: Quentin Verwaerde

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About Author

Abigail Welhouse's work has appeared in the Toast, Lyre Lyre, Keep This Bag Away From Children, The Sheepshead Review, the Heavy Feather Review, the Rumpus, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from the City College of New York, sends Secret Poems at tinyletter.com/welhouse, and talks about wishes & horses on Twitter (@welhouse).

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