So why the sudden lust for apples,
their sudden overpresence in your mind?
Perhaps it is your pride that grapples
with busting fruit, as if you were confined
to dumps of dust within the garden,
as if you mustered long for scraps, a rind,
a pit, and felt the hunger harden.
Don’t prattle pap for godly pardon.
Don’t prate about your holy hard on.
Confess your human faults and I’ll forgive
and give you clumps of clod and let you live
in hell. Sure, blame the girl and bluster
that she ensnared you in a fluster
of sin and stain and skin, while knowing
she’d blush and shake and blame the fucking snake
and never name the urge you couldn’t slake.
You fake! What appetite was growing
that bade you prance about in fig-leaved shame?
Speak, coward! Thirst for knowledge as you claim
or ache for ripened flesh? I’ll tell you what,
go find that girl and brand her primal slut
and temptress whore. Then see what lies begot:
the worm, the cut, the wound, the cankered clot.
See that? Just watch it, watch that apple rot.
Note to poem:
The words I wrote were “godly pardon.”
Don’t read the rhyme as “Dolly Parton.”
I know it’s feminine, you privileged prick.
But I’ll wield a spear like any Spartan
and stick its tip into your sexist shtick.