Questioning room, post-Fall

No, we aren’t what we appear. The dangling
lightbulb yellows us, presses our shadows flat
onto the floor. Leave it to our shadows, then, to be
forgiven for what we cut out of the light. What other
part is there of a living person without pulse? We’ll stand,
here, yes, naked, even, as if that could help. You promised
power over language and animals but every word
calls out your distance, you, who formed us in the image
of a question, but, no, never promised to answer.