Touch is easy these Eves harbor no fig leaf, 
draped in Mary’s red silk heavy
no one is virgin we aren’t sure 

what it is to be pure anymore / ever
I spy my eye sliding sap down her limbs twisted
wonder if it taints me        desert dirt caught in my        honey don’t we

want the earth inside us        mouthy        drum beats 
mallet of the moon tithe        don’t we 
want to leave rusty        trails down the bathtub drain? 

Their touch is always: tell me it can’t be 
butchered by the clever        flick of a critic’s eye,		
or eyebrow-plucked by a plaque

that tells of her marriage but never        this touch,
this cage, the course of this orbit gaze.

About the Author

Anne Duncan lives on the edge of Lake Washington in Seattle. She works as a composition instructor and predoctoral student studying modern and contemporary poetry at the University of Washington. She holds a BA in creative writing from Johns Hopkins University. Her poetry can be found in The Ekphrastic Review and Ekphrasis Magazine (forthcoming), and her literary reviews in 32 Poems and Bone Bouquet.