We are the fallen women.
Pitched into the sky,
we fell
without beauty or grace.
Our limbs flailed,
spittle on our chin,
and throats raw with screams.
We were terrified.
(We hadn't done this before).
At least we dared to let go.
Others clung to the edge,
dangling.
And though they looked
unmoving,
the effort to hold on
drained them
completely.
Let go, love.
Feel the rush.
We'll open our wings later.
When I fell
I never tasted an apple
so divine.
Your lips, so red
as if blood-dipped,
reminded me of the paradise
I gave up.
And, given the choice,
I'd pick the apple
again.
At times, the pain of the fall
was excruciating.
(I think).
Pain is difficult to recall.
Especially if the pain had a purpose
bigger than I could conceive.
It leaves marks, though.
Pink, puckered, angry grimaces.
Flesh remembers pain.
And sometimes it twinges
to teach us the caution
we left in the wind.
In the beginning,
we were ravenous
to shed light
on the other.
We gave each other eyeglasses
and wept
for we finally
saw the shapes of the leaves.
So that's what it's like.
I never knew until now.
We traded body parts.
Take my rib.
Not that one!
The bottom left.
Your other left.
Yes.
