OF COURSE THE FIRST EVER SIN WAS A WOMAN EATING
God forbid women do anything in this society.
God forbid a woman eats. God forbid she has a
treat. She’s been fighting these allegations for
years. Always “Eve ate the apple,” never “Eve
was manipulated into eating the apple.” Sure,
she ate it first. If a talking snake told me this
white old man was lying and the apple held
wisdom and power, I'd be munching on that
immediately. But they framed her. Blame Adam
or God for not welcoming her and giving her
a rundown. The real villain in Genesis is God––
that man knew Eve would be tricked and did
nothing to stop it. Besides, God told Adam
not to eat from the tree. Not Eve. And God
didn't get mad until Adam ate the apple. Not
Eve. There's a reason it's an Adam's apple.
And even if it was her fault, I support women’s
wrongs. Miniskirts wouldn’t be a thing if she
didn’t eat it. She was just a girl in the world, just
wanted something sweet. Like what, she was
supposed to starve? A girl can't even have a little
snack anymore. Anyway, you think I believe a
manmade Bible? I met Eve once in the bathroom
of a Mitski concert and she said he ate the whole
thing and wouldn’t even share. Such a man thing
to do. They love to slander a woman's name. Wait
until you hear about my girl Lilith.
FREE DIVING FUEL
All I need is the list and a cig,
a perc and the girls he’s dreamt about.
A perc and the girls who still haunt me––
with this knowledge I’d want to leave him.
With this knowledge I wish I could leave him,
for no man is worth the ocean’s floor.
Whether worth the ocean floor or not,
I’ll be back, promise. And more than five bodies.
Back, as promised, and more than five bodies:
the Kraken leashed, Davy in his own locker.
Kraken leashed, Davy locked, Bermuda squared,
the damn seven continents back in one.
The seven damned continents in one piece,
oh, all I need is the list and a cig.
WHAT A TIME TO BE ALIVE
You do look radiant. Guess one man's
environmental disaster is another man's
slay. Our sinuses are like an ashtray, but
we’re literally living in a Bertolucci film.
I already thought about how the lighting
will make for better selfies, and there will
be fewer people out. Is that so wrong?
I have thought this more than I would
like to admit.
My niece said she feels like we’re living
in a 2012 Instagram filter, and she’s right.
The lighting is unreal––golden hours
upon hours upon hours, and the sun sets
pink too. It's giving Italian dusk and
Aperol spritz on the terrace. Smells like
glamping at a chic spa: smoked maple
wood, cedar. Global environmental
catastrophe but make it chic.
And only six cigarettes? Oh, we’re good,
I literally quit smoking two days ago and
God is like No, you didn’t. Six cigarettes
is a mild night out, just a night out in
Bushwick. Smoked 20 a day at one point,
I’ll be ok for a day or two––who’s got the
lighter? We’re all going to look incredible
during the apocalypse. You glow in the
smog, honey. It's worth the carcinogens.
YOU'RE MY BABY, SAY IT TO ME
Do you know what it means? I bet on
losing dogs? I fought the urge to sing
this every time I held him in my arms.
I’ve done this to one boy I loved and
very much done this in my delusions.
I just want my boy back. Want to hold
him like this again, lay with him, sing it
to him, stroke his hair, tell him he’s my
baby, but he doesn’t deserve my type of
love and he knows. I’m so bad at hiding
my love for him.
Oh, to do this to someone––I’ll do this
for somebody if they’ll let me! I’d be so
good to someone. Is this too much to
ask? I hope to be his best comfort one
day, though I have never been loved this
much. Where does everyone find their
partners filled with such love?
BEAUTIFUL AND IMPERMANENT
It’s late and I’m tired but we’re
misunderstanding each other, I think.
My God you are luminous. Still,
witnessing you is staring heartbreak
in the face.
Love is not the two-dimensional thing
people like to imagine, not something to
hoard. Is there even a The One? I
don’t think there is. You find a One
and make them The One over time.
You just pick and do your best.
Mostly, I'd hate to be with someone
who sees me as a means to achieve a
goal. I’m not a leading love expert. I’m
trying to leave room for love in my life in
whatever form it comes in. But Oh lord,
I fear this could happen to me one day.
I want to be a choice. That is true love,
my dear. You love exactly how I love,
and I love that. Oh, look at me with
the honey glows after hearing this.
I get drunk and start walking in circles, it
soothes me. You get drunk and say you’re a
bog siren. What does this even mean? Who
knows. I’ll listen to anything you say. I’d
follow you to any bog anywhere. I am not
God's strongest soldier. I’d be dead in that bog.
I understand the sailors now. See if I was a
pirate, I’d be a goner, I’d have had no chance,
babes. I’d be smitten and I’d listen to your song
and I’d have absolutely fallen victim to your
song and I’d crash on the rocks leading to a
watery demise. You could’ve lured me in,
would’ve had me crawling on all fours,
would’ve called me in with that siren song,
would’ve violently thrashed my head beneath
the cold, bitter water.
This is exactly why I can't be a sailor––it
would work on me. And, well, it worked. It
was witching hour, but with you, every hour
is witching hour. So fine, I’ll be a sailor––
we’re sailors now boys! I should pray I never
see you out at sea. Please let me be your
sailor. I’m thinking of crashing my ship
upon the rocks. I’m crashing my boat. I’m
diving headfirst into the water. Drown me.
Drag me to the depths. And you did. And
I was last seen alive in the bog.
Meg Curran (she/her) is a writer currently based in Norway. She researches and writes about culture, heritage, and food. Her poetry has appeared in In Parentheses, JAKE, Talk Vomit, and others.