BEFORE AND AFTER THE APPLE
            Eve’s account

by Lenny Lianne


I grow more despondent daily, bored
with the same garden-variety splendors,
and lately with the man—who poached
most of my names for plants and animals.
Often, he stretches out on the ground,
perfecting his tan, and ignores me.

Soon the serpent, not quite as green
as the leaves on the tree, emerges.
He whispers that the ruby-skinned fruit
is unbelievably succulent and much more
than I’ve ever experienced. I shrug,
pluck an apple off the nearest limb

and take a bite. To me, it tastes sweet
and somewhat tart, an odd combination.
By the time, the serpent slinks down
the other side of the tree and disappears
into the grass, I’m beyond watching him.
My world is starting to split open

and expand. I become a riverbed
for the torrent of fresh feelings and
thoughts that flood into me. With each
succeeding nibble, the wisdom
of these strange ideas and sensations
dazzles me. I start to stagger, stumble,

and sprawl beside the idle man.
Displaying the half-eaten apple,
I say, “Taste this. It’ll give you
so many new things to name.”
To oblige me, he bites down,
devours the apple, seeds and all.

Then begins our race out the gates
of paradise and escape to an alien
place. As he catches his breath,
the man’s angry, damning eyes
bore into me as the first, new word
I hear him proclaim is “blame.”


* * * * *

Lenny Lianne is the author of five books of poetry, most recently Sunshine Has Its Limits (Kelsay Books). She holds an MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from George Mason University and has taught various forms of poetry in workshops on both coasts. A world traveler, she lives in Arizona with her husband and their dog.