Brendan McMahon
Eve
The voice of the hidden one who called
was thin as a knife, a child’s cry
that rips the night, the ice tears
fall forever. Subject, an imagined thing,
frantic among winter trees that spread,
against an empty sky, their lying maps.
Invention, maybe, the radiant other,
a mad meal made of scraps of dreams.
From Adam’s bloody side, a breathing Eve.
Page(s) 32
magazine list
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