Let go,
she shoots a smile
like a falling star.

Sometimes,
the woman has
spun sugar on the tip
of her tongue,
you can almost
taste her soul.

Orion has dimmed
fading with the dawn
and as Venus rises
the blush of her
naked grief
casts no shadow.

Friday's fish reeks
of holy water and
mortal sin, as if it
matters to the martyrs
sacrificed with violent
stained prayers,
muted by distance.

But in this beginning;
Venus is poised on
the brink of fertility.

She cannot turn back,
or her name will
have no courage.

She must eat the apple.