Her name is the beginning
of night. Mornings, she nibbles
on figs; draws, stick scraping earth;
watches for animals in cumulus
clouds. Afternoons are a hum
of meal preparation, peaches
that bleed sweetness; greens she
splits at a touch; nuts that shell
themselves. Her husband sighs
as he eats; breathes compliments;
rests his head on her stomach
to invent words. Finally the sky turns
plum-colored. God’s tree becomes
shadow. A hiss in the air whispers
Eve.
Or maybe it’s please.