On the steps of the Vatican 

carmine worms slithered down my thighs 

to the smooth silver stone. I wrangled 

them and ran to the toilet, 

flushing before they were seen.

The rose stained glass commanded 

my body to become holy.

Ripping into my ankles, my nails

searched for the blood-maroon grapes 

that hung from vines in Eden. I bandaged

the marks when I saw bites on droplets 

from the mouths of the blooming clew.

My mother says when I was newborn

I smelled like a red, juicy apple

& they’re so tempting to devour. 

It was inevitable that the garden of my body

would be feasted on by the pestilence 

of my womb. It desecrates the wine: 

the rotting smell of bugs follows my hips.