All Adams and Eves 

were trees once

living hundreds of years

Before becoming bone 

of my bone, flesh 

of my flesh.

For now, you must 

labor birth,

trust in yourself 

and the synapses 

sending memories

of me,

It is there

I shall dust

your bare arms 

with yellow sunrise, 

tell you the stories,

Of the timid beech

who unfurls her leaves

without fear of frost 

Of windswept Islands

that return the whistle

of Atlantic currents

and that you’ve

been here before, 

fruiting the good 

rooted in evil. 

You’ve spread 

like constellations,

born of stars 

and exhaling novas 

while one man waits 

for your stardust to settle. 

Don’t reach for him

while molten,

mouth ablaze 

with soft metal, 

and the story 

of the snake

will end differently,

Gurgling up 

from the ocean’s 

spreading ridges

never once ashamed 

of nakedness, 

you may call yourself

wife, dear daughter 

I assure you,

you are the garden.