Congenital
       

Inside every heart
slumps the same
silk-fleshed fig

bitten in the first
lost garden. First
relinquishing skin.

Our paradox: carrion
that carries on,
tomb that mushrooms

to coax its stone
aside, and inside
gauze, deflated,

suggests the grave
we deserve yet
can never reenter.

Our central distortion.
Our sweet-weakened
teeth, long toiling

in fields, our orphaned
forever—tended then
bereft of fruit. A blush

inflames the slack-winged
birds, our half-mast
tails slapping the base

of our spines in migrant
flight. Our compass
slagging south. Sour

glint of bile. The pinch
of gilt-belated reflex—
diapered by our appetites.

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Copyright © 2014 Amy McCann All rights reserved
from West Branch
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission