The Mark of Cain: Chapter 2
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“Now the Serpent was
more subtle than any
beast in the field”
Genesis 3:1
I was marked—I had the Mark of Cain. I was born with it—the Sign of my Serpent nativity.
It was a Birthmark—a Tattoo of Shame. It spread upward from the middle of my left eyelid—the birthmark like Sula’s in that Toni Robinson novel.
It looked like the stem of a Rose—growing gently there up the side of my nose. But it was really a Snake—that’s what Adam said. He said it with a smirk—and a knowing look.
It was the Sign of our Fall—our mother Eve said. She called it a “copperhead”—she called it a “rattlesnake.” If it was a Rose—it suggested female romantic love and sexuality. But if it was a Snake—it suggested the “Male Gaze” and the “Evil Eye.”
You could only see it—when I was sleeping. Or when I winked at Abel—snaking around up there. To me my birthmark stood for only one thing—my queer desire and faggoty male gaze.
It wasn’t pretty—its “nastiness” was impossible to ignore. It had this imaginative “foul” look to it—like an epithet for “dickmeat” on the prowl. Just looking at it in the mirror—I could feel this terrible dinge denouement coming my way.
__________________
“Now the Serpent was
more subtle than any
beast in the field”
Genesis 3:1
I was marked—I had the Mark of Cain. I was born with it—the Sign of my Serpent nativity.
It was a Birthmark—a Tattoo of Shame. It spread upward from the middle of my left eyelid—the birthmark like Sula’s in that Toni Robinson novel.
It looked like the stem of a Rose—growing gently there up the side of my nose. But it was really a Snake—that’s what Adam said. He said it with a smirk—and a knowing look.
It was the Sign of our Fall—our mother Eve said. She called it a “copperhead”—she called it a “rattlesnake.” If it was a Rose—it suggested female romantic love and sexuality. But if it was a Snake—it suggested the “Male Gaze” and the “Evil Eye.”
You could only see it—when I was sleeping. Or when I winked at Abel—snaking around up there. To me my birthmark stood for only one thing—my queer desire and faggoty male gaze.
It wasn’t pretty—its “nastiness” was impossible to ignore. It had this imaginative “foul” look to it—like an epithet for “dickmeat” on the prowl. Just looking at it in the mirror—I could feel this terrible dinge denouement coming my way.
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