“Adam & Eve at the Tree of Masochism” by Jennifer Bradpiece


If I said Eve liked it, you
might not believe me.
If I said Adam wanted it,
you would flush and turn your head.
In any case, they looked up.
Silver bloomed everywhere.
The bound leather trunk stretched
out like sutures over
the sappy bark.
He pierced his tongue
so he could be one with the tree
any time of day.
She drove a barbell
into her labia
so she could tilt her pelvis
up towards the flog tassels
weeping from the tree
in bunches.
Neither was dom.
They took their orders
from God, after all.
Would you rather Adam
touched her cheek?
Would you rather
Eve sat quietly
and disappeared?
Oh they set to work
eviscerating themselves
on the tall reeds that grew
beneath that tree.
Each cane stroke
a multi-tiered revelation:
Exhilarating shimmers
echoing through the sky
like hawks.
There was supposed to
be a snake.
Maybe its bite was a catalyst
when the pain split the sun
and rolled God’s eye
into focus.
Maybe the snake said:
“The only way out isss through the ssskin.
When you bypasss the body,
you misss ssso much…”
***
Maybe God’s laugh was
so awful and other,
Adam swore it was a growl.
Perhaps, as Eve stretched,
metal in each soft fold,
hanging her torso
backwards down the rough tree’s skin
towards the Earth
like a rack of lamb,
Adam, in his confusion,
mistook the surge of power
for ecstasy, for salvation.
The emphasis fell
on fear, on limits, on rules,
and naming.
And it could be that there,
in The Garden
of nipple clamps
and wax hot sap,
they forgot their shared language,
and set about
erasing each scar
and cauterizing the sacred bleeding
and attempting paths
around the skin towards the sky.
And the snake slept silent.
And God’s voice grew muffled,
receding.
Jennifer Bradpiece was born and raised in the multifaceted muse, Los Angeles, California, where she still resides. Despite chronic pain and illness, she tries to collaborate as often as possible with multi-media artists on projects. Her poetry has been published in various anthologies, journals, and online zines, including Redactions, Mush Mum, and The Common Ground Review. She has poetry forthcoming in The Bacopa Literary Review and Moria, among others. Jennifer’s manuscript, Lullabies for End Times will be released in early 2020 by Moon Tide Press.
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