Eve's Lament

I am beginning to feel I’m married to Adam
and miss the blossoming mud and those mornings
I’d lie on my back thinking up names: Orchid. Raccoon.
Here there’s a new music that I love.
I am still trying to accept the fact of death.
He said to me once, “it takes character to endure
the rigors of indolence,” as if paradise were a burden,
as if we were better off turning my mistake
into something good. My mistake!
We were treated like children and for a moment
I wasn’t thinking, forgot the distinction
between apple and pear.Before that I had planned
to tell Adam serpent was better than the word
he’d come up with, that it sang in the voice the thing it was.

I know he tries not to blame me but this isn’t fun.
I miss the way he looked at me, newly woken,
one of my legs between his, hoping for a day
spent in repose. But now we’ve had a hundred Mondays
of planting wheat and studying roots, techniques
for skinning rabbits, their little furs enough
to warm one thigh. Soup. Bread. Candles.
We’ve grown accustomed to not touching.
I can’t remember the last afternoon we spent
sitting in a stream, singing, washing each other’s backs,
but my hair was long then and smelled of poppies.
I draped it across his chest, my hair he combed
his fingers into like a loom, as if he could weave another past
or another future, one not filled with walking alone down a path
picking raspberries, bleeding from my fingers,
sobbing, sobbing at the sight of a lark.

 

Volume 12.1 - June 2019

SM Stubbs is the co-owner of a bar in Brooklyn, NY. He is the recipient of a scholarship to Bread Loaf and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize as well as Best New Poets. Poems have appeared in The Pinch, The Normal School, Jabberwock Review, Cherry Tree, Poetry Northwest, Opossum, Atticus Review, Glassworks, The Bookends Review, and The Collagist, with work forthcoming in Puerto del Sol and others.