From The Garden of Earthly Delights, Hieronymus Bosch |
The Rabbit arrives late, the game already begun. One lies succumbered, propped up against a toppled surface, his head turned feigning disgust, yet smiling. Another on the floor, outstretched, head back to expose a willing neck. A feral beast gorges.
The Rabbit watches on as a woman takes the die, to carefully balance it upon her head. She made the rules, they are hers to break. A weak soul places his hands over his face. Yet the temptress becons and he dares to gape, one eyed, through finger and thumb.
The backgammon board stands ready, two arms holding it upright. An illicit enticement, the dices rolled, just beyond reach. He will find her, sleeping peacefully in the arms of a stranger, branches wrapped tenderly, to rest one on her belly, the other on her breast.
And there on her chest is a black rose.
© the dishonest woman
And in her womb, he knows, a thorn.
The Rabbit is only passing through.
© the dishonest woman