Older, moonswept no more
Lilith saw bed as a place to sleep
but sleep abandoned her
like the millions of guys she’d had.
Every night she tossed and turned
with memories of her God-awful sex life—
Lilith’s face made a face at her
in the lighted mirror at the cosmetics counter.
Craggy, ravined, parched,
that thing above her neck looked like the Sinai Desert.
Yesterday militants high on toxic rumors
baby killer! man raper!
had run her out of town. Again.
She needed some ego first aid.
New address, new name, plastic surgery—
all that in good time.
In the fitting room at Macy’s
Eve shimmies into a pair of leopard-print leggings
then mocks a dance pose.
“OMG! You’re hotter than a habanero in those pants,”
gasps Lilith. She slides her finger
down Eve’s shapely hip
as though striking a match
then blows out her finger.
Eve and Lilith peered through
the padlocked gates of the garden,
now a restricted community.