Heather Treseler Heresy

In bone china plates from a first
broken home, in parlor photos
of a daughter grown your freckled
imago: once upon a time, upon

a living room, days hinged closed
on the new-familiar of pairing limbs.
If I err now against disclosure,
against ninety-nine theses

pinned to a flat-faced door, I am no
longer a player ingrate war nor wed
to a man-myth stitched from Europa's
womb, scarred in its trench

of endless retrievals. No more
the lessor of a cleric eager for
his convert and true believer:
a lover who'd take as writ

the genesis wherein no rib was
ever lent to Eve; where one,
erected Lord (fair & indivisible)
wholly was household god.

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