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I taste of mud, pert meat, the moon’s eclipse;
being born still and cold until Lilith
breathed life into me, wrote the word, “Emeth,”
on a stone and placed it between my lips.
I still shimmer as I pass through heated air,
though my lisp anchors me here. One day soon
you’ll kiss me and taste the wasteland’s dark moon
while on your knees, while tonguing my curled hair.
Lockjaw and spittle. “Lilith’s Pet,” you said,
staring as your nipples perked. Like footprints
trampled in red mud, in blood, my kiss shall
leave its mark, tell you that I was born dead
in dearth and plague. I want to see you wince
taking me in, like sin’s gin, raw’s mescal.
According to Jewish folklore, Judah Loew ben Bezalel (a 16th-century rabbi of Prague) created the automatonic Golem by shaping it from river mud and writing the word, “Emeth,” meaning truth, on its forehead.