the second fall

     by Rachel Bunting

i.
This is a new garden. My garden.
I grow tomatoes, coax the celery
through a cool summer. Adam
watches from the riverbank; he does
not understand the care required
to make things grow, to keep them
healthy. He only asks why I do
not grow apples. I never answer;
we do not talk about Eve if I can
avoid it.

ii.
Twice a week she slides into my garden
undulating that sleek and legless body,
scales alight with some immoral glow.
She had another form, I know, before
the Fall—but now she winds about
my ankles, spits hello. She’s learned
the art of temptation, how to make a man
thirsty even in satiation. Seduction
is a quiet sin; I know he remembers her
loveless mouth gathered against taut skin.
I pray her new shape reminds him of the after-
Garden; how she fought her penance.
He promises they share nothing
but a child now.

iii.
Adam vows his life to me, this land.
We pace familiar paths each night;
his favorite takes him past a tree
like the one he knew before me, before
the Fall. I examine my hands; I will not
even look—no secret is worth that singular
taste. He swears he has forsaken her
love. His eyes shift. I hear her
name and curse. She is no Lilith.
She may be worse.

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Rachel Bunting is a born and bred South Jersey girl currently living between the Delaware River and the Pine Barrens. Her poems can be found in Boxcar Poetry Review, Weave Magazine and Relief. Her chapbook, Ripe Again, was released in 2008 through Finishing Line Press.

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© Sotto Voce, 2009.
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