Eve
Ankles, pelvic bones, fingers root
to the earth. Sounds I cannot yet fathom
settle on me: “This is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh.”
Dew drops cling;
what is inside me quivers. I stretch and shed minerals and minute living things.
A creature, wide-eyed, stands before me—like me, but different. Feeling free,
reckless even, I wander amidst velvety ferns, ornamental flowers, dancing
trees—seeing, touching, smelling. There are other creatures—all sizes, all
colors, all wonders—with their own movements and sounds.
Then, another
sound, like thunder: You must not eat
from the tree in the middle of the garden, nor touch it. Or, you will die.
Die? What is die.... And, then, the
sound of hissing-- “You will not
surely die… You will be. Like. God.”
Be like God…? The other-like-me, his
hand envelops mine; our limbs brush. His body heat and needing penetrate. Plucking
what is forbidden, I taste and offer what is not allowed. His eyes lock on mine;
he bites. The other existing things stop, watch, wait—eyes wide, guttural
sounds dropping.
What is this you have done?... The
rumbling, again; this time, like sorrow. Sweetness dribbles from the other’s
lips. I slowly wipe the stickiness from my own with the back of my hand. The other beasts, their tails swishing, their
wings flapping, turn, and leave. What was above swells and veils everything. Silence stretches out with on-coming mist. The
man, he looks away. My insides sink.
“But, the
Serpent, he….” My sounds stumble on each other. Cold scales slither across my toes,
loop my ankles. Stuck. I try to rid the stickiness from my fingers, lips, hands, but
everything it touches, sticks, stays. Bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh
stammers, “But, it was the woman…” and turns his back. He walks from me. I
follow. Thorns bite my skin; jagged rocks wound my feet. Ahead lays a twisted
path. Eternal judgement plays out--with choices. Children of the devil or
children of God?
Genesis 2:4-3:24
Have you ever wondered what you would have done had you been Eve?
