Ashley Mares: Unclean Hands
UNCLEAN HANDS: YOURS, MINE, AND OURS
So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree desirable to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate. She also gave to her husband with her, and he ate.
-Genesis 3:6
I dug my heel into the dirt
just to know what it felt like to
fall into something.
When it hardens
between my toes, it
multiplies and spreads
through my veins - iced
over as it solidifies.
I wouldn't waste my energy
on breaking it open –
letting it free.
If I wrapped a leash around
my mind would it heel when I
commanded or freeze up
in the grass and wait for time
to pass.
I remember
the juice hardened too - it's
stuck between the
four-inch seams.
With my fingernail, I could
scrape it away - claw at it
until it's
satisfyingly clean.
I got mud on the fruit when
I bit into it –
the skin contaminated after
my teeth broke
through the threshold.
The taste wasn't as sweet as
my expectations.
The juice dripped
from my lips –
down my neck –
fell to the ground.
It slid right off the
dirt, like water slipping
from ice.
When I wiped it away
it made my fingers
stick together.
After I swallowed, I
wasn't sure if the empty
crater in front of me was your
bite or mine.
A CREATURE WANDERS THROUGH THE FOREST
-after Frankenstein
The creature liked the warm feel of
blackberries in his palm. He never thought
the sweet juice looked like blood dripping
from his lips until someone pointed
it out to him. The moon shined
on his skin in the same way that it did
the villagers. Somewhere, a mother tells
her young how God is behind the clouds
and in their bones—maybe through the
woods or on the other side of the
meadow. From the woods, the creature wept
when he saw a woman bring her father something
to drink: watched as her father shared
stories of what came before her. No
one told him why tears fell from his
cheeks—he asked the birds but they didn’t speak
the same language. He stayed hidden behind boney
branches and berries. He wasn’t like them: but
he slept when they slept so he could pretend,
at least through the night—before the sun
shined its harsh light.
ON THE CREATION OF THE BODY
-After Mary Wollstonecraft
And how it’s women’s
work: needlework skin
to bones and remember
a waist small enough
to cinch: pinch cheeks
until rosy and smile
at every man’s
glance. When the body
faints from your corset,
thank the man who helps
you up and learn to
loosen ligaments
properly. When hair
uncurls remember
the women whose
bones have turned
to dust. Someone set fire
to their insides. Hands
can do more than shape
women’s skin—crush
berries to feed the
wild, smooth
feathers and please
a saint. We’ve been here
before: been consumed
by fire and erupted overnight.
Ashley Mares is the author of Maddening Creatures (Aldrich Press, forthcoming), The Deer Longs for Streams of Water (Flutter Press) A Dark, Breathing Heart (dancing girl press), and Killer (Ghost City Press, forthcoming). Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Stirring, Whiskey Island, Sugar House Review, Glass Poetry Press, Prelude, PANK, and others. She is currently completing her J.D. in Monterey, Ca, where she lives with her husband. Read more of her poetry at ashleymarespoetry.wordpress.com and follow her @ash_mares2.
