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East of Eden

Stella Lee '23

Tell me is she east of Eden. Did you deprive her of the promise for the pitiful? Her dressing is the mosses, joints are the earth’s old rocks. Her hair is her veil to the world, to the promise. We cover our heads, but what are we covered from? We the chosen, we the vulnerable. We who live in synchronized isolation, all brushing hair, all in Rapunzel’s tower. Our childhoods are free from trouble, flying high below the ceiling of clouds. You watch us fly but don’t see the strings that tie us down, down, down into the cerulean abyss of Nod. We the wicked witches of the east, not the beautiful splendor of the west. Manifest destiny to dominate the dream, but leave in behind the ruins of me and you. The core of nod is my beating heart, pulsing currents of blood. The sea is full of blood of the promise, of the girls. Was it not the man, who we were made from? To be from you is to be designated, infatuated by the spendor of him. In our wombs you sow children, you sow the sin. Sinners, you chide, is it that hard to be Mary? To birth forth what is earthen and holy, but we are the vessel and you are the immaculate conception of thought to the heart, to you. You who provided us with nourishment for the dead, so we set out to create our own birthright instead. Call us witches, deprive us of the promise, but understand that we are cardinal directions and guiders of many. You plant a tree in our garden with your own seed, but then call the garden evil. We aren’t east, we are in Eden–your everlasting Eden.

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