children of guilt

Cupped hands are full of blood we never drew
Ishmael was the wrong one before he ever took breath,
sin of his parents echoing in bones, right through
heart and lungs and veins, all stained by death.
Sick-sweetness on the back of woman-tongue
from an apple-bite never tasted,
acid curling lips from young
Eve’s hunger millennia ago, chance wasted.
This is how it’s always been-
after all, Achilles was born to die, divine and human
blood curdling in his veins, pounding in his ears, the din
hounding him down a track laid out before the womb in
which he lay was ever fertile – sacrificial lion/
lamb bleeding out for the order of the world.