eve as a young girl

for Natalie, who is s[eve]nteen

i.

Supermarket.

She will spend hours in the fruit section
looking at apples. Has to be perfect, she
says; you must take apples seriously.

Her fingers glance over them all.

Green. Waxy. Solid.

I chose the wrong apple once, she says.
Can’t afford to do that again.

ii.

The evening is violet, with a moon.
Seven o’clock coils silky-like round table legs.

If we sit still, bones to bones,
I can feel your purr through my veins.
Warmth is the third language we come here to learn.

I wanted to tell you, I wrote your song
on a blue windowpane somewhere in France.
Our fingers describe
this Impressionist sky.

iii.

One afternoon, she knelt down
on the yellow-stained pavement and
picked a single saga seed. Blew the day’s
dust off this red kernel and
gave it to me. Told me: “This seed
is a piece of my heart. You must always
keep it close to yours.”

Jars and jars of red seeds, for memories -
and yet I’d have known her heart in any jar.

iv.

to look at her you’d never think
she grew from someone else’s rib.
she’d a smile tasted like the first
sweet bite of an apple. girl.
seventeen. velveteen. her ribs her own.
between them, a song. light loved her
like water. after gardens, after genesis
who’s to know she was beautiful?
that the afternoon filled her like a cup.
transparent. endless sunlight spilling over.

v.

She takes the apple out of her pocket,
shines it on her sleeve, holds it up to
the light. It’s a beautiful apple, says she.
Have a bite.

The oldest story.

The apple glows, its skin smooth
unbroken like innocence. Love, her eyes say,
was never the original sin.