Lesson on the Letter S

S is for sin. I knew what we were in for.

How could we exist without an exit?

He called me his apostrophe, a she, his little rib.

What soul? What self? I wanted to be singular.

In the beginning, there was light, but it was slight,

a soft wan-colored swan, a shallow lake to slake

our thirsty throats, an often hallow place. But a slow hiss

announced itself. The windswept willows wept.

At thirty, my possessive ex and I were fruitful,

peaking naked, multiplied our sex. But soon,

his low snaked tongue, in speaking, forked

our sour sons, our daughter and myself with words

of swords and I returned, both cursed and cured,

ears seared with newfound knowledge,

turned our laughter into slaughter.