The gown clings to the wearer’s shoulders
with vines, the first garden, ensorceling flesh,
the apples of the knowledge of good and evil
fanning a ruddy starburst over the mons,
Adam and Eve’s heads just above the invisible
knees, Eve’s hand reaching for the woman’s
bold enough to trod about (in this garment
in) the garden. Two serene deer observe,
omniscient, this perfect moment before
forever after, its shimmer of toile, God
turning away the better to pretend surprise
and ask, Where are you? Why do you hide?
Devon Balwit writes in Portland, OR. She has five chapbooks out or forthcoming: How the Blessed Travel (Maverick Duck Press); Forms Most Marvelous (dancing girl press); In Front of the Elements(Grey Borders Books), Where You Were Going Never Was (Grey Borders Books); and The Bow Must Bear the Brunt (Red Flag Poetry). More of her individual poems can be found here as well as in The Cincinnati Review, The Stillwater Review, Red Earth Review, The Inflectionist; Glass: A Journal of Poetry; Noble Gas Quarterly; Muse A/Journal, and more.
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