There are those who go about
in itchy coats of skins, spitting
bitterness on kindling, cursing
more each stone they place
upon stone, despising the scent
of lamb chops, thinking they can
cure themselves of being clothed.
There are those who—banished—
linger at the Garden’s eastern gate
grown thick with Venus’s-flytraps,
wondering, salivating. They forsake
a daughter, just maybe curious enough
to see what cherubim will do if they make
a run for the nearest, lowest branch.

Poet’s Notes:

Image entitled Garden of Eden from the New York Public Library’s Digital Collections.