Eve Sleeping

I never knew a woman named Eve.

Her eyes were black as chocolate, her

hair black as naphtha, her

skin the color of olives, her

lips not red but rich brown.

She is sleeping in every woman,

dark heart self-containing,

filled with secret knowledge:

What men want.

What women want.

What lack needs filling;

What excess needs release.

She is the dark heart of the gentlest blonde,

the soul that the lover sees behind the eye

like a naked woman at a window in a darkened room.

She is the dark mind of the kindest mother,

the spirit that the lover hears in the silence

that greets his fond babble, silence

imperiously sure of its dessert.

She is the dark will of the female child

suddenly aware that she is female and therefore

powerful.

She is sans merci.

She must be obeyed.

She is the mantis

the male offers his head.

She is the black widow

whose answering penetration

gives the little death forever.

She is the tooth nursing the neck;

She is the mouth engulfing man's soul;

She is the cave he can only enter.

She is the price of love.

She is helpless before her power.

She is subject to her will.

She is the darkness

beneath the garment of skin.