on the way down south, up from the valley

What if Eden was a dry grove in the middle of scrubby wheatfields?
What if all Eve offered Adam was a crushed handful of dried pine needles and birch leaves?
He took it greedily because she had said there was beauty in them, and beauty sounded delicious, and he was always wanting more. And more and more. And more.

When God walked through Paradise, they hid--
it was easy to tell,
the sound of wide, self-made heavy footfalls on dead things.

And He knew,
And He said,
"The fuck did you just eat, Adam?"

And the aftertaste in Adam's mouth turned pungent and his tongue was dry venom,
And he spat it out--so there was hemlock--
And he spat out the words:
"She gave it to me, Lord,
She said it was good. She said it was beautiful.
How was I to know? I was only hungry."

"When I've given you everything you'll ever need? I mean, seriously," He should have said.

But God,
being an image of man
turned her face sharply to the side.
He punished Eve
for finding beauty in the banal,
wondering at the dark,
awed at death.

Neck bent crooked,
Eve cursed her partner.
"May you never find water in the desert," she spat in return.
"May the poison from your fangs never be milked. May you always choke on it!
Oh God, that I could see your face and destroy it!
I hope I never bear you any sons."

What kind of God would be so cruel
as to keep the bitterness in our mouths?
Was there any corporeal serpent in the grove,
Or was it, is it still,
coiled beneath the sternum of every woman?

-Dana Winter