If There Were Apples

If there were apples ripe enough to eat,
it must already have been autumn,
and the leaves of the Garden,
would already have been gold.
And when she saw an apple fall,
she would have bent to pick it up
though her fingers
must have tingled from the cold.
And when her hand was cupped around
the toppled globe,
she must have known it
was too late to put it back.

And if she brought it to her lips
to warm it with her breath,
its sweet scent
would have swept her to the ground.
And when he found her in a pile of fallen leaves
with the ripe flesh in her mouth
and the bright juice on her chin,
he would have leaned
against her breast
and had a bite.
And if there was a worm,
it already was inside.  

The Robing of Adam

He summoned Adam up,
and I was forced
to watch the ravishment.
My flesh went numb,
recalling how the serpent
said we would become like God,
and now I caught
the cunning joke of what he’d meant.
I had no fear
of what our warden had in store for me.
But it was death
to see my garden disappear:

the shoulders, then the breasts
—the swirl of hair
that curled down to his root.
He’s hidden now like God
who knows the reasons for the shame
that makes him hide inside
a robe and not be seen.
But my Adam
was an Eden in his skin.
I miss the tree and animal of him:
the downy trunk,
the swagger of his fruit.

Ontario Review #52