by Lory Widmer Hess
Surely this is the fruit
That Eve once plucked—
Not a bright, wholesome apple
With thin skin and pale flesh
But this dark glory
Shut up in red leather
This promise
Of infinite
Knowledge
Surely what she consumed
Were the bloody seeds
That planted in her
Our death
But death is sweet
In the eating, the living
Each bite bursts with flavor
To please eager tongues
Concealing
The bitter core
Sucking sweet,
Chewing bitter,
We follow our mother
Into
A dangerous forest
What can safely be known?
Which fruits can we pick?
Do we heed
The voice saying “No”
And avoid transgression and pain?
Or do we reach out
To the mystery’s heart
And taste
Its hidden joy?
