Lately I’ve been thinking about Eve,
how each day she’d feel the weight of that rib
insistent as affliction, her debt to him
solidifying, certain as earth.
And around her the garden grows, lush, unchecked,
the mistletoe on oak, and vines slowly roping,
insidious fingers that seem to grope
for her hair as she walks.
And the heavy, ripened fruit
and the waves of perfect flowers
gush forth a fragrance so sweet and cloying,
at times she finds it hard to catch her breath.
So when she sees herself reflected
in the prism of those eyes, glittering
with danger, and strange possibility,
she follows him to the far end of the garden.
His small tongue, forked and flickering,
points toward something far more interesting
than faith.
And I imagine her holding the fruit,
not an apple, but, I think, a pomegranate,
crimson juice glinting on her lips and skin.
Smiling slightly she offers it to Adam,
each seed foretelling every conceivable sin.
--Moira Egan, 1995