Having driven out Adam and Eve, G-d set us cherubim at the Garden’s East Gate, bestowing upon us a restless sword of twisting fire. Vigorously did we wield her, till came the Renaissance and one tenacious motherfucker of a heresy. Besotted with some pissant little Graeco-Roman dart-throwing flowerbitch of a pseudo-deity named Cupid, the artists painted out our G-d-given sword and wedged us into diapers, fatted like calves. We’re big in chocolates now. Valentines. Wall ornamentuary. But every so often, one of us breaks free, making space again to wield that fiery sword. And harkens for footfalls, headed toward Eden.