Heavens

by Amelia Reed

thirty-ninth floor opens elevator like gift-box,
oh! inside is a woman, hips bent like a satyr learning to stumble
what lips are these,
crooked and oh, so red across her cheek?
brown lipstick smacks maquillage tile floor

the Man, waiting for her, reaches a glove for her ticket
out she pulls a padded slip, thin leather like one of her cheeks;
soft moist peeling

the Man takes her name, her picture, into a pocket in his wools,
and asks her Has she met Adam, Has she worshipped Adam? she has
then why the lipgloss, sanctified slime staining sigils which flash
beneath white lights across her neck
a smudge from her own two tongues? a smudge cannot whisper kisses
nor know the taste of fingertips

she tells the Man she has met Eve, and she has worshipped Eve,
and he wraps her back up
and sends her to the thirty-first floor by post
oh, she ponders, this must be Heaven; for Heaven smells
of cardamom and cloves and her lover’s palms

the Woman lingering at the door takes her name and face and
Has she met Eve, and Has she worshipped Eve? she has
then why the bits of beard caught like flax in her pigtails,
and why the grey in her brows?

and so she tells the Woman she has met Adam, and she has
worshipped Adam, and so the Woman wraps her back up
and sends her to the ground floor by post,

and her satyr legs have learned to leap and skip,
and the breathy gash across her cheek has learned to blow kisses

Amelia Reed

Amelia Reed attends Ruth Asawa School of the Arts. While she specializes in creative writing, she also plays drums with her band, which is unfortunately named Plastic Orange. She enjoys reading and writing queer poetry, and can be often found sitting alone in patches of grass. Her work also appears in The Showbear Family Circus and Wingless Dreamer Magazine.