Blood-Sweet
by Richard
He hung on the dark root,
the tiger breathing under him
like a hot, patient earth.
Two mice came—
night-mouse, day-mouse—
and ate the living fibre
that held him to the world.
Then the fruit:
a small, sudden redness
in the leaves,
warm, ripe,
blood-sweet.
He put it to his mouth.
The flesh gave.
The juice ran into him.
And the quick of his blood
woke,
even as the vine thinned,
even as the beast waited—
Life,
naked and complete,
in the last ripe instant
before the fall.