Confessionalism is passé, but if I may, I must confess that god spoke through talons that shredded me under a searing son. I’m fundamentally rotten, after all, and We Women are carrion. And so, succumbing to my fate like day does to night, I conjured Lilith with impure hands under covers. She stole kisses through my lips and evangelized my flesh with salvific hunger. I might open my mouth and make the world disappear down my slick throat. The gate is open and the garden is verdant. The air is heavy with jasmine and honeysuckle. When they peeled the skin from me, Moonlight gleamed through my bones.