eve in the garden.

love is the first and final mystery

the pillar of salt lot's doubting wife became

the last look back before orpheus lost eurydice

the immortal entombing of the pharaohs

achilleus, bright and shining.

god's true punishment for knowledge

was to drown in the sorrow of love.

the punishment of women.

the spines and squares and twists of green hills

and the love of a peace (home hearth protection)

i am i am

all the endings come to twist in infinity

where my cold white body turns dark and warm

i wish i had lived a thousand thousand years from now so i too could be a star traveler

where i am where i am

the cold air the cold calls of the wind

a knot inscribed huge on the ground

where i can walk it

i never knew when i first heard of the power of the woman-saint

the martyrdom and the final sin of eve

the final hurdle the last best hope the punishment of women

where i am where i am

i lost the end of sin

i am i am

where in the woman the snake

why am i not tempted

not thrown out of eden

when did i escape into the barren lands of the world

the singulism of my own small life

where is the terrible sword the shining light the knot the horse to carry me back

when will all the bells ring at once to show me the way?

jarhead summer.

one summer i took the bus to school with the veterans

who went to the VA office every day,

sometimes to the hospital.

young men. i fell in love with one, blue eyes high and tight with a scar

that curled his mouth up to the left and ran

down beneath the buttons of his shirt.

his right leg ended at the knee, propped up by

a prosthetic

decorated with fish stickers from his little sister. (he would tap it with his can and call it his fish tank). in the back of the bus, the last part of the route,

i shoved my hand down the pants of his uniform and held tight to the

screws of his metal leg.

we stood against the doors of my parents' honda civic and his kisses would jar my stomach, like i could grow new skin to zip up his old scar

or

birth a new leg that could be popped on like a lego part.

i smelled like yeast those days and i would bring jars of captured fog to him

and send it, flowing, across his skin, even though he never let me unbutton

his shirt all the way down,

fog like the same bacilli i baked into bread every morning

could steal in and staple me shut into his heart.

at night he woke, and trying to hop quietly on his one leg, would turn on every light in the house (a blazing beacon) and check the walls with his fingertips for landmines and IEDS. i followed behind in silence,

carefully clicking off the

lights and

waiting for him to stumble.

author's note: i've thought about this poem for a long time. it's not done. it should be in a different form, but blogger won't let me.

-n