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.