1. What we lost in the Fall
You asked me tonight if I missed Eden.
I do. I miss the delicate vapor rising from the
ground to water the garden. I miss the
strolls with you, laughing about our naked absurdities . . .
Yet.
The snow is starting to fall and I shake off
the memories. Our coats, made by a god,
have grown threadbare and holey, letting in
wind that bites through to gooseflesh
You say you will start a fire, I nod,
implying you are better at it than I, or do
I suggest that so I don’t have to move? motivations
are not as clear here as in Eden
A cur stalks the edges of the fire
watching us, watching the pair of doves
turning on a spit, fat dripping noisily onto the
coals. It will get nothing. Still it circles, tail
tucked close, ears flat,
its belly a hollow khôra.
2. The puma
When the lion screamed,
We stared into the darkness,
Eden’s hound longest.
3. Things were hard in the lone and dreary world—
After the Fall you played piano in a hotel bar
smoky, filled with lusty travelers, empty-souled sots,
drunk, stuffing dollars into your jar hoping
to lure you back to their shabby earth.
You sang songs we learned in the garden,
your voice low, Cherubim-like, sultry,
promising life and healing,
but the clientele could only pick out the
hooks and riffs available to their shallow natures.
My heart broke that you had to endure their gaze,
and slap away their mechanical hands. But by
the sweat on their face we were to earn our bread.
And me?
Swabbing out subway toilets, bagging sticky
condoms, wiping shit from the seats with
industrial chemicals that burned my eyes and
soul, and always, always, always,
dreaming of Eden and the days before we
ate the fruit and God flung us away. I could
remember it so well! The sunlight on flickering leaves,
watching the flora and fauna until we could name them all!
Until that day. Between two stalls I found the
cur that had followed us from paradise, covered
in pus-yellow sores and cigarette burns, its lips
bared in a breathy, drowned snarl, death nearby
smirking.
I carried it to the lounge and you wept
and we walked out abandoning our jobs
cradling the dog, a dying remnant of Eden.
You said, We can’t go back to the Garden
but we will build one here or we will surely die . . .
4. I kill the snake
I was wrong. I admit that.
But you would come home from
your walk and gush on about
what the snake had said.
It was so wise. So Clever!
All day you would sit below
it and listen to its stories.
You learned about quarks
and black holes, and tiny
strings vibrating in an
ether, mysterious with
chaotic strange attractors.
Knowledge! It said, was
the currency of meaning.
You would go away, leaving
the naming to me. Alone.
I saw you hunger for what
the snake offered
it was in your eyes—
they sparkled when
you spoke of the beast.
It told you of the fruit,
that would open your
dancing eyes, full of light.
One night I hunted it
down. I grabbed it.
Swung it round and round
bashing its head against
that fruit-laden tree
which tempted you so.
The next morning you
found the snake dead.
Murdered. Enough,
you said and took
the fruit and ate
and held it out for me.
You were right.
I took the next bite.
When the Lord appeared
walking in the cool of the
day. He looked down
at the slain snake
and said, Leave this
place. Never return.
I do not know why the
dog followed us out.
5. The nanny
You did not like taking
Cain to the shelter
so we lived out of our car.
We did this and that for
gas money while the
bright one-eyed cur
watched the
boy tethered in a harness
to a tree
in the copse by the
slow river.
6. Mortal coil
The corn is as high as Abel stands
and he and Cain are playing
hide and seek among the green
stalks. The dog wags its tail and
barks, playing with them. Helping.
It is time for chores so I call
the boys in and Abel goes to
help weed with you among the
carrots, cabbages, and potatoes.
Cain heads for the barn
to care for the rabbits
we raise for fur and flesh.
How I love this place:
You, Eve,
the boys
the rich and fertile land.
Here even the snakes play
their role to keep the mice at bay
Outside of Eden it is
strange how much death
it takes to sustain life.
7. Long time gone
I buried you next to our boy
Abel and the cur—both ages dead.
I marked the date of Abel’s death
in Afghanistan on the stone,
so long ago buried that the sharp-edged
etching has smoothed and softened.
I think the cur could not live without
Him, and somehow knew on the day the
shrapnel tore him in two, so far away.
It howled long and the same day collapsed.
Cain never accepted Abel’s
sacrifice and still bears
the scar on his forehead
where he was clubbed by
a righteous patriot during the
protest of the war Cain hated.
He stands now
weeping by the cornfield
For you, for Abel,
for the cur
and for all who abide
outside the flaming swords
guarding the way back.