By Jessica King Seeds of Rotten Fruit
You smiled as beer dripped into the soil of my sweaty skin, liquid gold in the spring.
I laughed in the sunlight and you drew me into the night-shade, waiting, yearning, burning for my flesh. Clouds shrouded my mind until rain permeated my garden, sealing your fertilizer in the Garden of Eden. But you will not be the Lord over the vast land of my being; I will not bear the fruits of your labor. In the dead of night, I’ll flee the falsehood of your piety and dig a grave for the unborn.
– Inspired by Ernest Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants”
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