a gate will not remain closed
a gate cannot,
remain closed. what cannot be denied will
crack the shell and
sip the yolk.
you are more than calcified cage bars.
your body is not
what left the womb.
you envenomate your body. drink it like
milk and honey. the rib clot soul. that first bite.
you are the snake with hinged fangs,
granting knowledge in the garden.
you dislocate your jaw and your teeth
open, a door to your body.
you aren’t adam at all. you aren’t
the ground, you aren’t the dust,
you aren’t the blooded clay
gripped tight on the potter’s wheel.
you are the snake crushing the egg,
you are the yolk
blooming like a sunflower,
you used to pretend your hands were
seabirds and your body the
whitecaps, skimmed and ever-changing. you used
to lick salt from bone.
the seas your skin would sweat.
now the yolk
runs down your chin. sap and fruit juice.
you are laughing at the garden gate.
you are eve under the cobra’s hood.
you are the apple.
you drank the whole tree, and now there is nothing
you do not know.
Natasha King is a Vietnamese American writer and nature enthusiast. Her poetry has appeared in Constellate Magazine, Oyster River Pages, Okay Donkey, and others. She lives in North Carolina, where she spends her spare time writing, prowling, and thinking about the ocean. She can be found on Twitter as @pelagic_natasha.