Eden, On Earth

 

It was the serpent’s fault—
slimy, slithery thing
gnawing on the roots, and
whispering lies, eating
from below.

Everywhere, a tree—
can we paint it back into existence,
Eden?

It was the woman’s fault—
she told him to taste;
it was good, very good.

And then, the horror
of knowing, came
like deluges of despair—
it was true, and the cord was severed.

It was God’s fault—
He made the woman, who
told him to eat;
(She said she was deceived.
She said she was sorry.)

All these colors, spinning
in circles, laughing
coils of snakes
entrapping the creation:

“If I can’t be a man, then
I shall pull wools over his eyes, and
torment with guilt, for
having foolishly believed me.”

Even the psychiatrist draws the trees, for
he, too, knows
what was lost in refusals to admit
one’s hand in original transgressions.

Yet, how lucrative
the earnings from despair, reapings
from what someone else has sown…for we still
blame (the) Father, for our mess.