The Coming of Eve
Scott Ward
The God who led her by the hand
past walls of cedar and the roof
of green was just a quirk in air,
a flaw in the sheer pane of sun.
She stepped above the fern and ducked
below the overhanging boughs
and came by hills where no path marred
the green which shook the early dew
upon her ankles, to the shade
where a man named dust was waiting.
He was struck through by her white flesh
parting leaves, by her creature-look
of suffering. His only work
throughout his loneliness had been
to dress the garden with his speech,
that he might yoke each thing on earth
to the savage tongue’s dire cunning.
The dust man named her Eve and spoke
the vows to institute their bonds.
His consort, she lay under him
and stained his body with her blood.
Her catch of breath, each little gasp
of ecstasy snapped like a ripe apple
in autumn air. Hearing his name
used thus, mingling a curse and praise,
the Lord God moaned with centuries
of grief, and fleeing to his Heaven,
dropped a sword of fire at the gate
of Paradise. But the lovers
were gone already, who now craved
rank fields, the exercise of will.
The man was captivated all
his days with her intimate cries,
and the visions they engendered,
seen through a haze, the rhythmic stamp
of horses on the road, the boast
of Lamech and his curse, the walls
of Enoch hung with heroes’ shields.