Bonita Summers

Do the words come slowly to you?

Must you turn them over like snowflakes on your tongue,

Momentarily numbing… then, gone?

I see your thoughts are frozen, too,

Blameless, really, for having seen me and realized

You did not look through

For the first time.

 Hardened feet on weathered floors,

A hanging basket damp with ripened fruit,

Threadbare rug - no one is welcome.

Notched pine bed frame,

Pillows rare with filmy lace,

A frozen place she does not rest.

Rag-stuffed windows fain warmth.

Cheerless curtains mock this time

Of silence deafening past murmurs.

Pulled within and curled under

A withered gourd too long on the vine,

She waits for frost to come and with it sleep.

So I am not Eve
Who damned mankind to Hell
For her lust and wantonness.

In the garden,
He gives me the apple
Man, not snake.

And says, “eat of my body, it is life”
And tells me, “let me eat of yours”.

So, we feast our lust and wine
With music dancing
And buffeting us a warm breeze.
No sound from on high.

No damning from above.
Our bodies entwine.
We hunger and feed ourselves on each other
With no one to say “sin”.

What sin? In this garden?
Nay, it is love
I for he and he takes me in
As I do him
Two snakes winding through
And into each other,
Sensuous in the summer sun.

And there is no one to say “sin”.