Love Poem from the First Woman 

Here, languid in the shadow
of an elm which blots the sun,
we are naked and feel no shame.

Your fingers sift through dirt
letting particles slip through cracks
into piles of human clay.

A Serpent weaves its way, lazy
in the cool air between the roots,
cutting curves in the dust at our feet.

You pinch the apple stem between
thumb and forefinger; it dangles
back and forth like a pendulum.

Tastes so sweet on the tongue, doesn’t it. 
You beckon for another sliver, shift in the dirt;
I notice your naked form tremble, 

And we seek fig covers to block a breeze,
the genesis of a tempest. We shiver
as the tree creaks on its foundations.

We walk from this garden into the desert,
crimson apples in hand, just enough for sustenance.

You pause, melancholic; “I feel as though
we cannot return.” To which I reply,

“the world needs us,” and I offer
forth an apple as sheets of rain