The Making of Eve

The Making of Eve

"Unlike things yoke together"
~Coleridge


Summer was frying an egg
on the head of God. The Seven
Sisters were aghast at the lapse
of efficiency. The range
of emotions was complex:
God recalled The Mother
gently nuzzling his hair. The basin
filled with the sound of castanets
& the cascabels of snake tails. Winter
was beside herself, every crotch
or crutch expired—the falling
was collecting. Summer crawled
out from the hand of Earth, took
the top-hat out from the rabbit,
and took The Fall for it. Eggs
burst at their seemliness, seedy
viaducts of passionfruit juice
flowed into a red sea. Winter got her
period, and gave birth to Spring
who wanted amnesty—the country
carved out of breath expired, centuries
passed out in the confusion. History,
like a second smoke, snaked around
The Garden. And God, amid the figs
and rapture, was so tight
a Script Institute herpitologist
couldn't milk him. Picture
a moment in Paradise: The Coconut
Express just saying "yet," the robin's egg
view, the hustling guarantee of
mañana. Imagine that. Love
spawning a flood. Summer left
hunting through a drought—the sixth
sense of ash; and Adam, that little blow.
What could we do with butter brush
scuttling Autumn? God's laws clattering
ghost claws through the branches'
sudden hush? The meadow was a subway
to a heart—a sudden stop. An opening.
And we took it.