The Anti-Grief. Marianne Boruch
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snake famished at this point, mouth
wide open at, on that apple
right out of Eve’s hand. And she’s not generous,
or just can’t imagine—
and will not not not release. Maybe that’s
the bloody thorn of it.
No sound in the garden. And closer, so much
weirdity to love. Which one, Adam
or Eve smarter, more full of wanting, of bravado,
wonder, all grief finally but first
able to talk those animals into lounging about,
no vengeance, no tricks, assuming
chats with a snake don’t count. I’m not sure what counts.
Or who’s even counting though the parrot
(a parrot? large, strange in that setting, a so-what-if-
history-begins-as-some-mythic-dire-reboot
all over him) looks away, in profile, ready to lament not yet
the again again
calm enough on a branch held high by
the first man. Now just a distance,
an apple to take or to give.
It’s those was-and-will-be stories my whole life
with a fuck-up inside. Starting sweet,
out of place. Pre-unbearable.
The Professor of Antiquities
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