a woman emerges

Eve Never Asked for Apples

I met a snake once

in the garden in my backyard.

I didn't know I had

anything to be afraid of.

I was eleven, naked and naive.

I was ninety nine parts mom,

one rib dad.

I was never told not to trust snakes.

It followed me home.

I let it.

It crawled into my bed

and I didn't know I should have been afraid.

It struck under the covers,

all fangs and venom,

tail stuffed in my throat

How was I supposed to know any better?

Venom works in funny ways,

clouding your memory until

it seeps from your skin years later

as if to say,

"Remember why you started

covering up? Why you never

entered the garden again?

Remember your sins?"

And when I try to recall

my own innocence, it is

clouded by my misplaced guilt,

and I wonder if I was made in my own likeness

or if I am just the ghost

of someone else's temptation.