100 poems, 100 days

I keep thinking about how, after

they ate

the fruit--they didn't lie

to one another. They didn't envy, he didn't reach

out to strangle her

neck, to stop the blood

pulsing there.  

Instead, it seems the snakey lie  

wasn't success,  

money, or last name.  

It was their bodies

that sent them hiding  

in the chest-high bushes. 

They were naked.  

Nipple, hair, crease.  

They were ashamed.  

 

And after He found them, as the evening cooled, 

(because who could hide from Who Created), 

he shook His all-knowing head at the leaves

cobbled together, tied with vines or stitched with  

fir needles.  children children, 

there's hail, wind and dust.  

He wrapped them in hides, skins to protect

And sent them out to battle this:  

souls and thorns, labor pains, 

one another. To stop  

the blood pulsing there.