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by Rivers Solomon

Mother is God, I’m her whim made from clay. Mother is God, I’m Earth’s broken rib. Over and over again, she says: Child, this is paradise. I say, Mother, I’ve never heard of a paradise with a talking serpent, nor one where I must daily encounter food I’m forbidden to eat. I may be newly made, but even I know apples are to be consumed. They’re on the list of WeightWatchers foods worth one point.

Every day, everyone is a hundred different people: who they are when they are alone and feeling fuckable, who they are when they are alone and feeling unfuckable, who they are when they are grief wrecked, when they are joy smacked. There’s the sobbing woman who pulls herself together for her husband, her children. She sinks like an anvil into the part, until she is the part. The other hers disappear, phased-out software.