Free Entry 1, Week 2

In my town, everyone uses the same dominatrix.
She has no leather anymore, having shredded it all
for the last customer, whose fetish means knives
with their blades of grass cutting into her tender feet.
I passed by her yesterday and saw only the old woman
sitting on the porch with her rocker bent sideways
and her eyes staring at the moulding, considering,
perhaps, the necessity of maintaining a home for a woman
of little repute. Mary has no imitation of fallen sin,
suggesting that God marked her face like Cain, the first
murderer just as she represents the first shade under
the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil: Eve tempts
Adam, but he does not resist. Who, then, takes the blame?
Everyone uses the same dominatrix in my town;
but no one speaks the shotgun phrase of freakish pleasure,
only glancing from time to time to the front porch
of a lonely old woman with no more leather
and pointing with a finger that will later
be in her mouth.