How tempting it was to climb the garden wall
and taste the fruit on the other side.
I watched from the top of the highest tree
as he summoned another woman from his rib
and bit into the pomegranate she plucked for him,
the blood-like juice running down his chin.
Their sins shimmered on his lip in the evening sky.

He told her my wings were blood tipped,
woven from serpent scales,
that if she didn't sleep with one eye open to the moon
I would creep into her dreams
and snuff the life from her womb.
Because I was made of dust
and would not lie beneath him.

Angela D. Stancar grew up in North Carolina, where she received an M.A. in English with a concentration in creative writing from North Carolina State University. She has had poetry and creative nonfiction published in several regional literary magazines and online journals, including Main Street Rag, Iodine Poetry Journal, and Travelmag. She now makes her home in London with her husband and is currently diving into life as a freelance writer and editor.